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DE MO LAI 


THE 


LAST OF THE MILITARY GRAND MASTERS 
OF THE ORDER OF TEMPLAR KNIGHTS. 


A ROMANCE OF HISTORY. 



BY EDMUND FLAGG 


M 

AUTHOR OF “THE PRIME MINISTER,” “THE FAR WEST,” “FRANCES OF VALOIS,” 
“THE HOWARD QUEEN,” “VENICE: THE CITY BY THE SEA,” ETC. 




“ De Molai : the Last of the Military Grand Masters of the Order of 
Templar Knights,” dealing with the persecution and final suppression of the Order 
of Knights Templar, is a powerful and intensely interesting historical romance of the 


Fourteenth Century, the action mainly taking place at the court of Philip the Fourth 
of France. The novel will be especially prized by the Masonic Brotherhood, as it 


gives the history of the Knights Templar from the foundation of the Order to its 
overthrow. There is an abundance of picturesque description. Jacques de Molai, 
the noble Grand Master of the Templar Knights; Philip .the Fourth and Blanche 
of Artois are the leading characters, but Adrian de Marigni, Marie Morfontaine and 
Pope Clement fill important roles. Marie’s love for Adrian and the mad interposition 
of the Countess of Marche form the underplot of the novel and furnish the emotional 
element. The intrigues and corruption of the French court are fully set forth, and the 
reader is shown a royal bridal fete. The romance is strikingly dramatic, and many 
of the scenes are highly impressive. “ De Molai” will be read with vast interest and 
enjoyment alike by all Templar Knights, the whole Masonic Fraternity, scholars and 
the public. 






T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS 
306 CHESTNUT STREET. 


> 



copyright: 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS. 
1888 . 


9 



u De Molai : the Last of the Military Grand Masters of the Order of 
Templar Knights is a historical romance of the reign of Philip the 
Fourth of France. It gives a graphic picture of the court of that unscru- 
pulous and ambitious monarchy with its political intrigues , its flirtations , 
its brilliant fete '< 9 nd its flu j rant injustice. Paris in the Fourteenth Cen- 
tury is vividly sketch l, and there are numerous descriptions of the pal- 
aces, castles , abbeys , cathedrals and prisons of that turbulent time, all of 
which have the element of picturesqueness. The strong plot deals mainly 
with the efforts made by the King of France, aided by Pope Clement the 
Fifth and Blanche of Artois, Countess of Marche, for the suppression of 
the powerful and wealthy Order of Templar Knights and the success which 
ultimately crowned those efforts. The main and most impressive figure in 
the romance is by all odds Jacques de Molai, the aged and self-sacrificing 
Grand Muster of the Order, and the lofty virtues of his noble character 
stand out boldly amid the general corruption of the age. A full and reli- 
able, as well as very readable history of the Templar Knights is given , 
which will make the book highly interesting and valuable to members of 
the Masonic Brotherhood everywhere. The rivalry of Blanche of Artois 
and Marie Morfontaine for the love of Adrian de Marigni forms the sub- 
plot and adds vastly to the absorbing interest of the skilfully constructed 
novel. Many of the scenes are intensely dramatic, and an exceedingly 
thrilling incident is the compact between the king and Bertrand de Goth 
in the Abbey of St. Jean d } Angely, while a thunderstorm is in progress. 
But the entire romance is worthy of more than ordinary attention , and 
that it will score a brilliant success seems almost certain . 


DE MOLAY MOUNTED COMMANDERY, 

OF 

THE CITY OF WASHINGTON, 

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, 

IN MEMORY OF 

THE LAST OF THE MILITARY GRAND MASTERS 
OF THE TEMPLE, 

BY WHOSE ILLUSTRIOUS NAME 

THAT COMMANDERY AND THIS VOLUME 


ARE HONORED 






* 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter. Page. 

I. THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY 23 

II. PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. ... 50 

III. THE BRIDAL FETE. 58 

IY. THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT 77 

V. THE LOVERS 83 

VI. THE ROYAL HUNT 92 

VII. THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON 102 

VIII. THE LETTER Ill 

IX. THE VISION 114 

X. THE MISSIVE 121 

XI. THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE 125 

XII. THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE 

KNIGHT 133 

XIII. THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS 149 

XIV. THE WARRIOR- MONKS 159 

XV. THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. . 171 

XVI. THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. . . . 183 

XVII. THE REFORM 198 


( 15 ) 


16 


CONTENTS. 


XVIII. THE FAREWELL 204 

XIX. THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS 215 

XX. THE ARREST . . . . . . 230 

XXI. THE CASTLE OF CUINON 238 

XXII. THE COMPROMISE 251 

XXIII. THE GAUNTLET 261 

XXIV. THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE 282 

XXV. THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. . . . 294 

XXVI. THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC 

PRELATE 307 

XXVII. THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE 316 

XXVIII. THE PEOPLE OF PARIS 326 

XXIX. THE MARTYRDOM 344 

XXX. THE RETRIBUTION 357 

XXXI. THE CONCLUSION 366 




PREFACE. 


rPl HE following pages are designed to illustrate 
a remarkable era in the annals of France 
and of Europe, and to recite events and portray 
personages that rendered it thus remarkable. 

With the single exception of the Templar epi- 
sode in “ Ivanhoe,” the writer recalls no attempt 
in English fiction to depict the character, much 
less to outline the history and career, or to detail 
the fearful fate of that wonderful Brotherhood of 
Warrior-Monks, of the Order of Templar Knights, 
whose fame for two centuries resounded through- 
out Christendom ; and which, as a peaceful Affili- 
ation, has existed to this day. 

The writer in these pages has endeavored to 
convey as much of information relative to the 
Order of the Temple as could be gathered by faith- 
ful examination and careful collation of most 

( 17 ) 


18 


PREFACE. 


authentic records, consistently with that exciting 
incident and rapid action indispensable to the 
dramatic interest of even an historical novel. 
Facts and dates may, therefore, he trusts, be re- 
lied on as correct; while the reader may indulge 
the reflection, also, that each one of the many 
names that occur in this dark chronicle of strange 
crimes is that of an individual who actually had 
existence in the age and country specified, and 
whose character and career were actually those 
therein ascribed to him. The writer has but 
taken him down for a time from his niche in the 
Historic Fane ; breathed into his nostrils the 
breath of life ; placed in his head v a human brain 
and into his breast a human heart and set them 
in motion; and then suffered him to act agreeably 
to the dictates of the one and the impulses of the 
other, in order to work out, as best he might, the 
destiny History has assigned him. 

Highland View, Virginia, 

September , 1888 . 


NOTE TO ILLUSTRATED TITLE. 


/ 



HE Illustrated Title Page presents the Grand 


-L Master of Templar Knights, in the mantle 
of his Order, bearing the Abacus , or baton of his 
office, which in the peaceful Affiliation of to-day is 
the same it was more than six centuries ago. 
There is, and can be, but one such sceptre of au- 
thority in the Grand Encampment of the United 
States; and that now in use was presented by 
Most Eminent Grand Master Hubbard on retiring 
from office nearly thirty years ago, accompanied 
by the statement that “ the mystic characters, 
and the mottoes, and the general appearance are 
in strict accordance with the baton used by our 
Martyr Grand Master, James De Molay.” 

The mantle prescribed by the Rule of St. Ber- 
nard, as part of the Templar garb in Priory, was 
required to be white, in order that, in the words 
of the Saint of Clairvaux, “ those who have cast 
behind them a dark life may be reminded, that 
they are thenceforth to commend themselves to 


( 19 ) 


20 


NOTE TO ILLUSTRATED TITLE. 


their Creator by a pure and white life.” Some 
years later, a red eight-pointed cross, the Templar 
Cross, on the left shoulder of the mantle, was pre- 
scribed by Pope Eugenius, as a symbol of mar- 
tyrdom. 

On each side of the Grand Master stands a 
Knight Templar in similar garb, bearing the bat- 
tle-banner of the Temple, the terrible Beauseant , 
alike the war-cry of the Templar and the name of 
his ensign — half black, half white — “ which 
means,” says the old chronicler, Jacques De Vitry, 
“in the Gallic tongue Bien-seant (well-becoming), 
because the Knights are fair and favorable to friends 
of Christ, but black and menacing to his foes.” 

There is another ensign associated with the 
Temple — the red Passion Cross on a white field, 
with the legend of Constantine, “ In hoc signo 
vinces” 

Very different from the Templar’s garb of the 
cloister, as a monk, though with light mail on his 
limbs, and spurs at his heels, and sword at his 
side, was his full panoply of war as a Knight, 
when, clad in steel from head to foot, with 
the beaver of his helmet up and visor down, he 
bestrode a powerful steed, steel-protected, like 
himself — with heavy cross-hilted sword on thigh, 


NOTE TO ILLUSTRATED TITLE. 


21 


and ponderous battle-axe at saddle-bow, be grasped 
with one mailed hand his chain bridle, and with 
the other a lance “ like a weaver’s beam.” 

At the upper corners of the Title Page is the 
Templar shield ; and the feet of the supporting 
Knights rest on the Templar Cross of the Beau - 
seant and mystic Abacus. Above all is seen the 
Passion Cross of the Templar’s faith, triumphant 
over the Saracen Crescent; while below, sustain- 
ing all, are beheld those grand words of the 
Hebrew monarch which open the 115th Psalm : 
“Not unto us , 0 Lord , not unto us , but unto Thy 
name give glory ” — which was the triumph-hymn 
of the Temple, as it was, and is, also, the mag- 
nificent anthem of their church, and was raised 
by the victorious warrior-priests on many a bloody 
field ; for, “ always, and on every field,” says 
Addison, “ was borne the Templar Altar for Mass, 
in special charge of the Guardian of the Chapel.” 
Strange association of religion with slaughter! 
On a field burthened with the slain and drenched 
with their blood, mailed forms, at a signal, sink 
meekly down ; and,, kneeling on human corpses, 
raise mailed hands incarnadined with gore, and 
give the glory of their fearful acts to the great 
Creator of, alike, victor and vanquished ! 


22 


NOTE TO ILLUSTRATED TITLE. 


Bat thus has it ever been, even from that earli- 
est of triumphal hymns — that of Miriam, four 
thousand years ago, praising the Lord who had 
“triumphed gloriously,” down through the centu- 
ries, to the latest bulletin of victory, “ by the grace 
of God,” from the latest field of the dead ! 


As a peaceful Affiliation, the power of the Tem- 
ple, at regards membership, far exceeds, at this 
date, that of the palmiest day of its military pride. 
In the LTnited States alone it numbers, by official 
returns, more than 70,000 Knights, in nearly 800 
commanderies ; while in Europe, and elsewhere, 
the aggregate, though less, is very large. The 
dying words of the martyred De Molai, six cen- 
turies ago, are strangely verified : “ I, indeed, perish, 
but my beloved Order will live ! ” And now, in 
distant Iowa, then a wilderness in an undiscovered 
land, there are more than 50 commanderies, and 
nearly 4,000 Templar Knights ! The aggregate of 
Royal Arch and Master Masons, subordinate to the 
Temple, approximates 800,000 in the United 
States. 


DE MO LA I: 

THE 

LAST OF THE MILITARY GRAND MASTERS 
OF THE ORDER OF TEMPLAR KNIGHTS. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d’ANGELY. 

6 4 riAIIB traveller wants his horse I ” 

I “Wants what?” 

“Wants his horse.” 

“ Holy St. Benedict ! — his horse at this time of the 
night, and snch a night ! ” 

“ He wants his horse,” reiterated the slipshod servant- 
maid, standing pertinaciously at the door half-ajar. 

“ Get you gone, you brainless baggage ! — to bed with 
you!” shouted the old man. 

The girl disappeared and the door closed. 

“ His horse, indeed, on a night like this ! ” soliloquized 
the host of the Bois St. Jean d’Ang&ly, resuming his seat 
by the blazing fire of wood, which roared up the vast 
throat of the stone chimney. “ That foolish Gascon girl 

( 23 ) 


24 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAtf D’ANGELY. 

is getting more and more foolish, every day. Just as 
everybody is going to bed, lo! in she rushes, half-asleep, 
and shouts — ‘The traveller wants his horse!’ Out on 
the fool!” 

The old clock that stood in the corner struck the half 
hour after ten. The wind howled down the chimney 
and wailed in the crannies, and shrieked through the 
key-holes, and raved around the corners of the old stone 
mansion and absolutely roared, like a huge organ-pipe, 
along the vast forest of St. Jean d’Angely, on the -skirts 
of which it stood. 

It was the night of the 5th day of August, 1305. St. 
Jean d’Angely was a small village of France, in Gascony, 
in the ancient province of Saintonge, in the department 
of the Lower Charente and the diocese of the Saintes. It 
stood on the outskirts of an extensive forest, known as 
the forest of St. Jean d’Angely, nearly midway between 
Poitiers and Bordeaux. 

It was a wild night, — as dark as Erebus; and the wind 
howled, and shrieked, and raved, and roared, and wailed, 
and whistled; and, from time to time, the rain dashed 
furiously against the casements, and the thunder rumbled 
in the distance. 

“ Man and boy, I’ve lived on this spot full five and 
seventy years,” muttered the old man, cowering over the 
fire, “ and never have I known a night like this. My, 
it’s almost as cold as winter, and this is only August!” 
he added, stretching his withered hands over the genial 
blaze. “ Wants his horse , a night like this ! ” he con- 
tinued, after a pause, with a faint laugh. “ Wonder who 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 


25 


lie is? He comes from tlie North, — perhaps from Poi- 
tiers, — perhaps from Paris, and seems to be a traveller 
on a journey. Well — well, he can’t leave before morn- 
ing, nor then, either, unless the storm abates; and it 
will go hard if I don’t discover who he may be. So I’ll 
e’en to bed. Everybody sleeps.” 

The old man rose, and having taken heed to the safety 
of the fire, took up his lamp, and was about tottering 
from the room, when he was arrested by the noise of a 
heavy tread in the apartment above, which, descending 
the creaking staircase, evidently drew nigh. The next 
moment the door was flung wide, and, upon the thresh- 
old, the traveller of whom he had spoken appeared. 

He was a man of apparently forty, — tall, large, and 
powerfully built. His eyes were dark and penetrating, 
his hair black and closely cut, and on his lip was a thick 
moustache. His air was lofty, and his bearing that of 
one accustomed to command. Energy, enterprise and 
indomitable will were traced on his thin, compressed 
lips, and in the lines upon his broad and swarthy brow. 
And, yet, with all the pride and decision of his aspect, 
and all else that might be deemed repulsive, there was 
that about him which warranted the judgment that pro- 
nounced him “the handsomest man in Europe.” His 
garb was a close travelling dress of dark cloth, confined 
by a broad leathern belt around his waist, from which 
hung a heavy sword. Over this was a cloak of scarlet, 
lined with fur, and bearing a huge cape, which, like a 
second cloak, descended half-way to the heels. The 
cloak was secured by a golden clasp on the right shoulder, 


26 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 


in a manner to leave the arm at liberty to handle the 
sword, while, on the left side, it was tacked up above 
the sword, and behind hung loosely in heavy folds nearly 
to the ground. A velvet cap ornamented with lace, over 
which was a kind of hood with a broad cushion on the 
top, called a chaperon , and a tail hanging down behind, 
protected the head. On his feet were boots with pointed 
toes. The lace upon the cap and the fur upon the cloak 
of scarlet cloth, as well as the length of the toes of the 
boots and the size of the chaperon , indicated the wearer 
to be a person of distinction. 

At this formidable apparition on the threshold, the 
old landlord had started, and had well nigh dropped his 
lamp. Recovering himself, however, he bowed before 
his unexpected guest and humbly asked his will. 

“My horse, sir!” was the stern reply. “ How often 
must a traveller order his horse in your ruinous old 
cabaret before being obeyed? ” 

“ But, your highness,” began the old man in earnest 
expostulation. 

“No words, sir! — the horse!” was the imperative 
rejoinder. 

“It is a dreadful night,” again ventured the host, as he 
slunk towards the door ; “ and your highness had better” — 

“ The horse ! ” thundered the deep voice of the trav- 
eller. 

And, without further word, the landlord fled precipi- 
tately from the apartment, holding up his hands in 
dismay. 

“ No wonder the old fellow is amazed,” soliloquized 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’AIsGELY. 


27 


the traveller with a smile, as the host disappeared. “It 
is, indeed, a fearful night. Not a star!” be continued, 
going to the casement and looking forth. •“ Very well. 
So much the better. I wonder if he will be there?” he 
added, after a pause, slowly pacing the floor, which 
creaked beneath his heavy tread, with folded arms and 
eyes fixed thoughtfully on the ground. “Be there? 
11 ell itself couldn’t keep him from such a rendezvous, or 
Heaven either, as to that, after the inducements that he 
has received! Oh, he’ll be there, and at the appointed 
hour, although, if this old fool detains me much longer, 
I may not.” 

Luckily for the landlord, the traveller caught the 
sound of horses’ hoofs at this moment on the stone pave- 
ment, in the yard of the hotel, and immediately hurried 
to the principal entrance. Opening the door, he was 
nearly thrown backward by the furious blast that rushed 
in. In front stood the old host, holding fast with both 
hands to the bridle of the terrified horse. The traveller 
closed the door and advanced. The horse with head 
thrown up, and eyes starting from their sockets, and mane 
streaming in the blast, at once recognized his master as 
he approached, and rubbed his head against his arm in 
token of recognition. The traveller placed a piece of 
gold in the hand of the host, and leaped upon his horse. 

“ Holy St. Benedict! ” cried the host, “ whither do you 
go on a night like this?” 

“To the Abbey of St. Jean d’Angdly,” was the brief 
reply; and wheeling his horse the traveller dashed into 
a road which plunged into the depths of the forest, 

2 


28 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN i/ANGELY. 


“May all the saints preserve him!” ejaculated the old 
man, as he returned to his hotel and found that the piece 
of gold repaid him ten times over the traveller’s fare. 

The midnight tempest roared through the forest, and 
the giant trees bowed before the blast, as the adven- 
turous traveller urged on his steed. 

On — on, — mile after mile, fled the terrified animal 
through the impenetrable gloom of the midnight forest; 
and on, still on, he was urged by his rider. At first, the 
path was broad and open ; but soon it became winding 
and intricate, and, at length, the darkness was so 
intense that further progress seemed impossible. 

Dismounting from his sweating horse, the traveller 
led him by the bridle, and endeavored to trace the path. 
But this was impossible, and, after repeatedly wandering 
from his route, he remounted the saddle and resolved to 
trust rather to the instinct of the noble animal than to 
his own less acute senses. 

For several miles the horse slowly advanced. At 
length, suddenly slopping, he threw up his head and 
loudly snorted. The next moment a voice was heard in 
the darkness. 

“ Bordeaux ! ” 

“Borne!” was the quick response of the traveller, 
who at once dismounted. 

A figure advanced and the traveller’s hand was closely 
grasped. 

“ Are you alone ? ” asked the horseman. 

“ I am,” was the reply. 

“Swear!” was the imperious order. 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 


29 


“Sire, I swear.” 

“Then, on to the Abbej r , for, by St. Louis, it is so 
infernally dark in this old forest that it is impossible to 
distinguish a tree from a tower.” 

“Permit me to lead,” replied the first voice. “The 
Abbey is but a few yards to the right.” 

“ You received my summons ? ” 

“ Sire, I did ” 

“No one accompanied you to the Abbey, or knows of 
your coming ? ” 

“No one, Sire. I left Bordeaux alone.” 

“ And reached the Abbey alone? ” 

“ About two hours since.” 

“And no one knows of your arrival?” 

“ Sire, the inmates of the Abbey have been asleep for 
hours. I have the key to a low postern, which leads to 
a secret turret. Besides, the night favors us; — who on 
such a night would brave the tempest or suspect others 
of braving it — ” 

“ Aye, who but Philip of France, or Bertrand de Goth, 
Archbishop of Bordeaux?” 

“Sire — Sire, if it please you, not quite so loud!” 
cried the trembling ecclesiastic. “ We are at the Abbey.” 

At this moment, the forest path emerged upon a broad 
and closely shaven area, beyond which rose in irregular 
masses, against the midnight sky, the towers of the 
ancient Abbey of St. Jean d’Angely. 

“ This way, Sire ! ” 

And the priest conducted his companion to the left of 
the main entrance, through thickets of tangled under- 


30 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY; 


brush, and through the old woods until they reached the 
foot of a tower, against which the enormous trees swept 
their heavy branches. 

Applying a key to a low iron door, at the base of the 
tower, it opened. The horse was secured to a tree, and, 
grasping his companion by the hand, the priest led the 
way up a narrow and winding stair, practised in the depth 
of the massive wall, until their progress was arrested by 
a second door, likewise of iron. This door flew open be- 
fore the priest, apparently by means of some secret spring 
which he touched, for he used i o key, and the two men 
were the next moment in a small turret chamber, heavily 
hung with tapestry of black velvet, with but one window, 
which was also heavily draped. At the extremity of 
the apartment stood an altar surmounted by the crucifix, 
and lighted by twelve waxen tapers, and decorated as for 
solemn mass. 

The two men, revealed to each other by the light of 
these sacred tapers, presented a contrast well worthy of a 
moment’s pause. 

Philip the Fourth, of France, if not absolutely “the 
handsomest, man in Europe,” as the distinction which his- 
tory has given him, — Philip le Bel , — would imply, had, 
at least, very few rivals ; and, among these rivals, cer- 
tainly was not Bertrand de Goth, the Primate of 
Bordeaux. Philip was tall in person and kingly in bear- 
ing ; Bertrand was short and corpulent. The front of 
the king was bold, frank, open ; that of the priest was 
sinister, suspicious, cautious. The former was the lion, 
— the latter the serpent; yet the aspect of each indicated 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAJT D’ANGELY. 81 

power and ability, — a power and an ability, as well as 
an ambition, of which, even after the lapse of more than 
five centuries, the marks can be distinctly traced on the 
era and upon the nations in which they lived. 

As the King entered the turret chamber, his hand 
rested on his sword, and his dark, penetrating eye 
glanced hastily around, sweeping the narrow limits of 
the apartment from its arched roof to its stony pavement. 

Two heavy chairs and a table of oak, on which were 
r candles and materials for writing, constituted, with the 
. altar, the entire furniture of the room. 

“Will your Majesty be seated?” humbly asked the 
ecclesiastic, presenting one of the chairs. 

The King returned no reply, but continued his exam- 
, ination of the chamber. 

[Raising the tapestry he sounded the walls with the 
, hilt of his sword, and the floor with his armed heel, to 
detect, if possible, concealed apertures, if such there 
were. He even examined the altar itself, that he might 
,be sure it concealed no listener; and, at an age when 
poison was actually administered in the holy wafer, it 
was not strange that a traitor might be suspected to lurk 
beneath tlie altar of God. 

“Will your Majesty be seated?” again asked the 
priest. 

“Are we alone? ” sternly demanded the King. 

“Sire, we are ! ” was the trembling reply. 

“Swear!” 

“I swear!” said the priest, laying his hand on the 
Gospels, which were spread open on the altar. 


32 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 

“ It is well,” said the King, placing his drawn sword 
upon the table, and taking one of the chairs. 

The priest remained standing. 

“Be seated, Sir!” said the King. 

ddie Archbishop obeyed. 

For some moments Philip sat silent, his searching 
eyes fixed steadfastly on the trembling priest. 

“ Bertrand de Goth,” he, at length, said, in deep and 
impressive tones, “ you are my deadliest foe ! ” 

The priest sprang to his feet, and his hand sought the 
bosom of his cassock, while beneath that garment glit- 
tered the links of a shirt of mail, as well as the blade 
of a dagger. 

A contemptuous smile passed over the calm face of 
the King, as he quietly waved to his startled companion 
tO^esume his chair. 

^The priest reluctantly complied, but still kept the 
wakeful vigil of his serpent eye on the powerful form 
before him. 

“ I say, Sir Priest,” repeated the King, “ that, since the 
deserved and dreadful doom of Benedict Gaetan, Pope 
Boniface Eighth, you, Bertrand de Goth, who now aspire 
to his vacant chair, are my deadliest foe.” 

The Archbishop, pale as death, and wondering to what 
this strange charge might lead, retained his seat in 
silence. A personal struggle with a man of Philip’s 
powers he knew could only prove fatal to himself; 
while in craft and subtlety he thought he might prove a 
match even for the King. This, indeed, was his only- 
hope. 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 


38 


“ I repeat, Sir, and you dare not deny,” resumed the 
King, “that all the censures, interdicts and excommuni- 
cations launched so freely on myself and my realm 
for nearly ten years by Benedict Gaetan were counse e<l 
by you, and sustained by you, and that as a reward for 
that support and countenance, you were first advanced 
by your master to the See of Oominges and finally to the 
splendid Archbishopric of Bordeaux.” 

“ But Benedict Gaetan lives no more,” was the reply. 

“ Aye, he lives no more ! ” cried the King, the bitter 
smile of gratified vengeance lighting his quivering lip 
and the fires of exultation flashing in his eye. “Bene- 
dict Gaetan lives no more. And how did he die? 
Even as the dog dies, so died he ; and thus perish all the 
foes of France ! ” 

The Archbishop shuddered and became even more 
livid than before. 

“ Shall I tell you how he died ? ” continued the King. 
“Abandoning the Vatican, he sought safety in his native 
village of Anagni from my vengeance on his crimes. 
There DeNogaret, with Sciarra Colonna and his soldiers, 
seized him. In his rage he blasphemed God, abjured 
Christ, and cursed the King of France to the fourth 
generation. Next delirium came on him, and in par- 
oxysms of madness he gnawed his own flesh in agony; 
and he died ! And then was recalled the prophecy of 
his victim-predecessor, the unhappy Peter de Mouron, 
Pope Celestin Fifth, — ‘ Curses on thee, Benedict Gaetan ! 
Thou hast mounted the throne like a fox, thou wilt 
reign like a lion and die like a dog]’ And so it was I” 


34 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 


Silence for some moments succeeded tliis wrathful 
outburst of the King. 

“ And was it to repeat to me the fearful doom of Bon- 
iface,” at length the priest ventured to say, “ that your 
Majesty summoned me hither? ” 

“ It was ! ” quickly and sternly answered the King. 

“ Amen ! ” ejaculated the Archbishop. “ But, Sire, to 
what end ? ” 

“To this end — to make my fiercest foe my fastest 
friend !” 

The priest raised his eyes in amazement, but they met 
the fixed gaze of Philip and again sought the ground. 

“ Bertrand de Goth,” said the King, “you know me ; ” 
then, after a pause, he added: “ And I, Sir, know you ! ” 

The Archbishop bowed. 

“I know you for the most daring and unscrupulous 
prelate in Christendom.” 

The priest again bowed. 

“ I know that you fear not Heaven nor Hell, and 
regard not God nor man.” 

Again the primate bowed. 

“ I know you as the faithful neophyte of Boniface 
Eighth^ — and he was my foe!” 

The priest started. 

“And, since that man’s deserved and dreadful doom, T 
know no primate in Europe, who can be a more dan- 
gerous foe, or a more efficient friend, to me and to my 
cause, than you can.” 

“Sire — Sire! ” exclaimed the astonished priest, rising 
to throw himself at the King’s feet. 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 


35 


“Nay — nay — not yet!” replied Philip, with a gesture 
of repulse. “ Be seated, Sir; you have heard not all.” 

The primate resumed his chair, and, folding his arms 
upon his breast, fixed his eyes humbly on the ground. 

“ Bertrand de Goth,” said the King, “ you are of an 
ancient race; — your father was a Knight of Villan- 
drean, and your uncle Bishop of Agen. From your 
infancy you have been destined to the church, and, in 
ecclesiastical knowledge, you have no rival.” 

The prelate bowed and murmured a faint acknow- 
ledgment. 

“You are a man of influence, ability, scholarship, 
accomplishment — ” 

“ Sire — Sire ! ” interrupted the astonished Archbishop. 

“ And you are a man of vice, cruelty, hypocrisy 
and guilt.” 

The priest was silent. 

“ But, above all, for my purpose, you are a man of 
ambition, — measureless — fathomless ambition. To win 
the rewards of ambition, there is no depth of guilt into 
which you would not descend, — there is no principle 
however sacred which you would not sacrifice. Am I 
right?” 

The priest returned no reply. 

“ Am I right, I ask ! ” sternly repeated the King. 

The prelate bowed. 

“ Very well. It is but fit that two men such as we 
are, — such as you know me to be, and as I know you to 
be, should understand each other, before we make a com- 
pact.” 


36 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 


a A compact, Sire? ” exclaimed the Archbishop. 

“ Aye, a compact. You have beard of compacts with 
the fiend himself, have you not? The theme I had sup- 
posed a favorite one with you churchmen!” 

“A compact of friendship, Sire?” inquired De Goth. 

“Friendship! What friendship can ever exist be- 
tween two men who have hated each other as Ave have, 
and still do hate each other as we do? Friendship, 
indeed! No, Sir — oh, no! A compact of interest!” 

“ And what interest of your Majesty can the poor 
primate of Bordeaux advance?” 

“Ask rather that which is uppermost in your mind, 
what interest of the primate of Bordeaux can Philip of 
France advance? But we waste time. To the point. 
When Philip the Hardy, my father, died, he bequeathed 
to my fulfillment three schemes which he had in vain 
striven himself to fulfill: the first was to seat on the 
throne of Arragon my brother, Charles of Valois, on whom 
Pope Martin Fourth bestowed the sceptre of an excom- 
municated king: — second, to establish the children of 
Blanche de la Cerda on the throne of Castile ; and, third, 
to reduce the rebels of Sicily, and avenge the thirty 
thousand Frenchmen who perished in the slaughter of 
the Sicilian Vespers.” 

“ And are these your schemes, Sire ? ” asked De Goth. 

“No, indeed,” replied the King with a laugh; “oh, 
no ! Besides, if they were, what aid could you render in 
their accomplishment?” 

“Sire, I despair of rendering aid in any of your 
schemes.” 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 


37 


‘‘How humble your Excellency has become! Oh, no. 
My schemes are not the schemes of my father. They 
called him Philip the Hardy, and me they call Philip 
the Handsome, and yet by the bones of my worthy 
grandfather Louis, of whom Boniface made a Saint to 
atone in anticipation somewhat, I suppose, for the 
wrongs he was about to inflict on his descendant, — I 
say, notwithstanding my father was the Hardy Philip, 
and I am the Handsome Philip, I have had a more turbu- 
lent reign than he had; — what with wars with the 
English, and the Flemish, and Pope Boniface Eighth of 
cursed memory. My schemes, Sir priest, lie within my 
own realm for their fulfillment; and to me it is enough 
that you can advance them, your modesty to the con- 
trary nevertheless, — you can advance them I say, if I 
'think proper to advance you ! ” 

“To advance me, your Majesty? ” 

“To be sure — to advance you. Of what service can 
you now be to me ? But a moment since you were your- 
self in despair of aiding me in any of my schemes.” 

“ And still am so, Sire,” was the meek answer. 

“Come — come — you are too humble by half,” said the 
King. “Such abasement flatters some weak souls, but 
it js loathsome to me. Let us talk of Mother Church. 
What news from Rome? What of the new Pope?” 

“Nicholas of Treviso has not yet been long enough in 
the papal chair to accomplish anything of moment, Sire; 
but he has been there long enough to incur the hate of 
his whole college of cardinals, I learn. This, indeed, is 
the latest news from Rome.” 


38 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN DANGELY. 


“And why do they hate the good Benedict, my 
worthy Bertrand? ” 

The Archbishop shook his head. ' 

“Shall I tell yon? It is because he has not obeyed 
the injunction of Boniface when he elevated the man, 
who, from a preaching friar, was promoted to the post 
of sub-prior, then prior, then provincial, and finally 
general of his order, — to the Cardinalate and Archbish- 
opric of Ostia.” 

“And that injunction, Sire?” 

“ Was this — ‘Be less pious, or be more hated ! 1 ” 

“His piety then has excited the hate of his cardinals, 
your Majesty would say ? ” 

“ Plow quick you are, my good Bertrand ! France 
has a right to claim a few cardinals’ hats, has she not? ” 

“The French clergy has been neglected, Sire.” 

“ And Pope Benedict Eleventh could send a red hat 
to cover the pious pate of the right-reverend Bertrand 
de Goth, Archbishop of Bordeaux, might he not ? ” 

“The Holy Father has the power, Sire.” 

“But has not the will, you were about to add, my 
pious Bertrand? ” 

“I have no hopes of advancement, Sire, at the. hands 
of Pope Benedict. I opposed his elevation.” 

“ And had you favored it ? ” 

“ Still, I should have no hope.” 

“Pope Benedict is not immortal, my good Bertrand. 
Pope Boniface was not, you know.” 

A faint, but significant smile played on the lip of the 
crafty prelate. 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN b’ANGELY. 


39 


“ Besides,” continued the King, “ you said but now 
that bis cardinals bated him.” 

“ I did, Sire.” 

“ And you said, too, that this was your latest intelli- 
gence from Koine, was it not so ? ” 

“ It was, Sire.” 

“Then I have news from Kome later than yours. 
Your courier says the cardinals hate the Pope — my 
courier says the cardinals have poisoned the Pope! ” 

“Sire — Sire!” exclaimed the astonished Archbishop, 
springing to his feet. “ Can this be so ? ” 

“ Oli, be seated — be seated, my good Bertrand,” 
quietly replied Philip, “it not only can be so, but it 
actually is so. Let me see — this is the sixth day of 
August ? ” 

“It is Sire — the Feast of the Transfiguration.” 

“How well you remember the Feast-days, my good 
Bertrand,” said the King, surveying the sleek and rubi- 
cund face, the portly and well-fed sides of his priestly 
companion. {< Do you remember the Fast-days as 
well?” 

The Archbishop smiled. 

“ To-day, then, is the Feast of the Transfiguration,”, 
resumed Philip. “What Feast was there at Kome some 
two weeks ago, — on the twentieth day of July?” 

“The Feast oPSt. James.” 

“Yerv well. On the day of this grand festival, 
the good Pope gave a grand dinner to his whole college 
of cardinals, — those cardinals who so hated him, you 
know. While at table, a nun of the monastery of St, 


40 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d’ANGELY. 


Peterville, — so goes the tale, — presented herself, and, in 
the name of the Lady Abbess, who was one of his peni- 
tents, offered to the good Benedict some freshly- culled 
figs, upon a silver salver. The Holy Father could not 
and did not refuse them. He ate two, and offered the 
others to his guests. They, of course, could not think 
of depriving his Holiness of a rarity, which he loved so 
well, and, at their urgent solicitation, he ate the rest. 
That night he was seized with intestinal pains, and, 
before morning, the papal chair was vacant. -Such is 
the tale, the moral of which seems to be this, that 
freshly -culled figs do not agree with a pious Pope, — 
especially, as subsequently came to light, when pre- 
sented by a cardinal who hates him, disguised as a nun 
of St. Peterville!” * 

“ And the successor to the Papal See?” 

“Is not as yet elected.” 

“ And the cause, Sire ? ” 

“The cause seems to be this: From the first day of 
the assemblage of the conclave at Perouse, the cardinals 
were divided into two pnrties, each of them too weak to 
overthrow, and too strong to be overthrown by the 
other. The Gfuelphs, led by Francis Gfaetan, the brother 
of' the departed Benedict, demand an Italian cardinal, 
a friend of Boniface; the Ghibelines, led by the Cardinal 
de Prato” — 

“The Cardinal de Prato, Sire!” 

“Yes, the Cardinal de Prato, my friend and your foe 

* William de Nogaret and Sciarra Colonna are charged liy historians with 
the poisoning of Benedict XI. Ferreus Vicentihus accuses' Philip himself — 
these men being his agents. ’ 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 41 

I say, the Ghibelines led by De Prato demand a French 
cardinal, a friend of Philip.” 

“ And is the conclave still in session at Perouse, 
Sire? ” 

“ No. De Prato found that there was but a single 
point on which they agreed, and that was to make no 
more Popes out of mendicant friars, whom Boniface 
had exhorted in vain to be less pious; and also that 
neither party would concede anything to the other. On 
his motion, therefore, the conclave adjourned, thus afford- 
ing the good Cardinal opportunity to communicate by 
swift couriers with his dear and powerful friend, the 
King of France, — although, of course, the act should be 
to the very great scandal of the cause, and the inconso- 
lable grief, no doubt, of numerous pious souls. For what 
saith the constitution of Gregory Tenth, decreed by the 
general council, convened in the city of Lyons in 1273, 
for the relief of the Holy Land, and for the reformation 
of warriors? Saith it not even thus, — that immediately 
on the Sovereign Pontiff’s death, the Cardinals shall all 
assemble in one chamber, and in that chamber be se- 
curely locked with a key — con clavis — no one being suf- 
fered to enter and no one to leave, and, if, within three 
days, they have not agreed upon a successor, then, for the 
five following days, they shall have but one dish for each 
meal ; and, at the expiration of those five days, they 
shall be fed frugally on * bread and water, until a Pon- 
tiff* is elected? — I say, good Bertrand, saith it not so? ” 

“Even so, Sire, it saith,” was the reply. “ But what 
saith the worthy Cardinal De Prato? ” meekly added the 


42 


THE ABBEY OF ST, JEAN D’ANGELY. 


Archbishop, who was evidently writhing under the tor- 
ments of excited curiosity — torments which the crafty 
King could not but perceive, whatever the efforts to con- 
ceal them, and which it seemed his policy to excite, 
rather than to allay. 

“ The worthy Cardinal De Prato, said ye? Ah, true — 
I had forgotten he was one of your special friends, good 
Bei trand.” 

The Archbishop bit his lip with vexation, and then 
smiled and bowed. 

“The worthy Cardinal says this, good Bertrand,” con- 
tinued the King. “Here is his letter,” he added, pro- 
ducing a paper from his vest, “let it speak for itself. It 
reached me at Poitiers by an express courier, to whom 
I gave one hundred marks of silver, only four days ago; 
and to-morrow, — nay, this very night, even, that courier 
must start back to Perouse with my reply. Immediately 
on receipt of the letter, I despatched a courier to you, 
appointing this rendezvous, in order to consult you on 
the wise De Prato’s dispatch.” 

“ May I read the letter, Sire ?” asked the Archbishop, 
eagerly extending his hand. 

“ Softly -r- softly,” replied Philip. “All in good time. 
You may listen to the letter first, and, afterwards you 
may read what is written — perhaps.” 

The prelate bowed assent, and, resuming his chair, 
crossed his arms upon his breast, and, fixing his eyes upon 
the floor, prepared to listen. 

“The wise Cardinal first sets forth in brief the posi- 
tion of the conclave,’ at the time of its scandalous 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 


43 


adjournment. This,” continued the King, “we have 
already discussed. He next proceeds to develop his 
scheme. To elect a French Cardinal friendly to Philip 
and a foe to Boniface is, of course, impossible ; but a 
French Cardinal and a foe to Philip is preferable to an 
Italian. 

“This, then, the wise Cardinal proposed: — that the 
Guelphs — the cismontane — the Italian Cardinals — 
should nominate three Ghibelines; — ultramontane or 
French Cardinals, and, of these three, the Ghibelines 
should select that one least obnoxious to them.” 

“ And have the Guelphs made their nomination? ” 

“You shall hear. The proposition was eagerly ac- 
cepted — the bait was greedily swallowed, and three 
ecclesiastics of this realm were nominated, who, of all 
others, have ever manifested themselves the most vir- 
ulent and uncompromising enemies of Philip of France, 
and the most open, avowed, and devoted slaves of Ben- 
edict Gaetan.” 

It was impossible for the agitated primate to. remain 
longer upon his chair. Rising to his feet, he hurried 
across the narrow limits of the chamber in a frenzy of 
excitement, and then returning resumed his seat. 

“The names, Sire — I implore you, the names!” 
earnestly exclaimed the ambitious Gascon. 

“Three names,” calmly continued the King, reading 
from the paper, “ and the names of three of your dead- 
liest foes in France were selected. It only remains for 
you to select which of these three men shall wear the 
triple crown of St. Peter ! ” 

3 


44 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 


“Sire — Sire,” ejaculated the excited prelate, dropping 
upon his knees — “I implore you, the names ! ” 

“These names,” calmly continued the King “are all of 
them, as stated, those of my deadly foes. But, there is 
one name here that belongs to a man who has even con- 
spired against my crown and my life! ” 

The Archbishop became livid, ghastly in his pallor, 
at these words, and attempted to rise, but his limbs 
refused their office. 

“ That man,” said the King, in stern tones, rising from 
his chair, and laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword, 
“is Bertrand de Goth, Archbishop of Bordeaux ! ” 

At that instant a vivid flash of lightning streamed 
through the black drapery that shrouded the only win- 
dow of the chamber, succeeded by a peal of thunder, 
which broke over the lofty tower and shook it to its 
foundation. The tempest, which, all of the night, had 
been brooding, now burst in terrible grandeur over the 
Abbey and woods of St. Jean d’Angely. 

The Archbishop leaped to his feet, and, for an instant, 
the two men gazed upon each other in awe-struck, 
almost superstitious stillness. 

“I say,” was heard the calm voice of the King, as the 
thunder rumbled away in the distance, and the big drops 
began to patter upon the dense foliage without, “ I say 
that man is Bertrand de Goth, and that man is he whom 
Philip of France may now with a word place on the 
papal throne ! ” 

De Goth, overwhelmed, dropped at the feet of the 
King and clasped his hands. 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 


45 


“ Sire,” he murmured, “ I am yours ! Command— 
I obey. From this moment the past is even as 
if it had never been. Friends — kindred — schemes — pur- 
poses — principles — my very existence I sacrifice to your 
will.” 

“ Rise, Sir — rise,” said the King, extending his hand, 
which the prelate eagerly grasped. “ The past is for- 
gotten — but let us not forget the future.” 

Then leading the Archbishop, whose hand he still 
firmly grasped, they both advanced and stood before 
the altar, decorated, as has been said, as if for the 
celebration of midnight mass. 

The King then placed in the hands of the primate 
the dispatch of the Cardinal de Prato, and, while it 
was perused, closely watched the changes of his agita- 
ted countenance. 

u Sire, command — I obey!” faintly murmured De 
Goth, when he had concluded and returned the letter. 

“You are now assured,” said the King, “that, with 
a word, I can place you on the Papal throne, or one 
of two other men, each of whom is your bitter foe, 
and, who, as See of Rome, would* doubtless, rejoice to 
degrade you from flhe station you now hold — are you 
not ? ” 

“ Sire, I am.” 

“And you are equally assured, knowing me, as long 
and as well as you have, that it is from no peculiar 
regard for your wishes that I have selected you as the 
recipient of my‘ favor; but because you can and will 
extend me that aid, as Sovereign Pontiff, which my 


46 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 

interests demand, more effectually tlian can either of 
your competitors ? ” 

“Sire, ask what you will. Your wishes are mine.” 

Turning to the altar, the King glanced over it, and at 
the objects which were placed upon it. 

“ Have you here,” he said “ the articles named in my 
letter?” 

• “ They are here, Sire.” 

“ The consecrated host ? ” 

“ Is in this golden pix.” 

“ And the relics of the Saints ? ” 

“The most revered relics of my diocese, together with 
a portion of the true cross, are in that casket.” 

“ And the Holy Evangelists ? ” 

“Sire, the volume is here,” said the priest, placing his 
hand upon its open pages, as the book lay spread upon 
the altar. 

“ Bertrand do Goth,” said the King, in solemn tones, 
“upon these Evangelists, and these relics, and this con- 
secrated host, swear to me the fulfillment of six articles 
of covenant, which I shall now propose ; and, upon these 
awful symbols do I swear to place on your brow the 
tiara of Rome ! ” 

“Sire, I swear!” firmly rejoined De Goth. 

“ Swear to me, that so soon as you are seated on the 
Papal throne, you will revoke all excommunications, 
suspensions of privilege, interdicts, depositions, and all 
and every ecclesiastical censure, done or ordered to be 
done, by Benedict Gaetan, Pope Boniface Eighth, against 
France, the King of France, and the Princes, his 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d’ANGELY. 


47 


brothers and sons ; also against bis barons, prelates and 
other lords of his realm, because of their denunciations, 
appeals, and demands for a general council, and became 
of alleged outrages, blasphemies, invasions, robberies or 
pillage of the treasures of the Church, and that all taint of 
calumny, and all note of infamy against the name of those 
who have sustained the King of F ranee in this contest shall 
be abolished; and, finally, that the originals of the sen- 
tences pronounced by the Court of Eome against the 
King of France and his adherents shall be torn from the 
register of the Church and publicly burned — you swear? ” 

“ I swear! ” was the solemn reply. 

“ Swear to me, that you will proclaim to the whole 
world that Benedict Gaetan, Pope Boniface Eighth, by 
reason of his evil deeds in the flesh, merits the eternal 
damnation of hell, and that his acts and his memory are 
alike detestable and infamous — you swear? ” 

“ I swear ! ” 

“ Swear to me that your consecration as Sovereign 
Pontiff shall be celebrated within the realm of France 
and that the Papal See shall be removed to Avignon 
from Borne — you swear ? 

“ I swear ! ” 

“ Swear to me that you will elevate to the Cardinalate, 
or to any other dignity of the Church, any and all such 
ecclesiastics as may be designated by the King of France 
— you swear ? ” 

“ I swear ! ” 

“ Swear to me that you will restore to France all her 
privileges, titles, dignities and estates, and will preserve 


48 


THE ABBEY OF ST, JEAN D’ANGELY. 


to her all her franchises, sovereignties, imposts and 
powers, she recognizing npon earth no other master of 
her temporal goods save only Philip, her King, and that, 
for the space of five years, all tithes of her clergy shall 
be paid only to him — you swear? ” 

“ 1 swear ! ” 

“ There is yet one other article of covenant,” said the 
King, “to complete the number of six, to which you are 
pledged, which I am not now prepared to propound. 
This article, whatsoever it may be, and whensoever pro- 
pounded, swear to me that you will also fulfill.” 

“ I swear ! ” was the deep answer. 

“ And the pledges to this fulfillment ? ” 

“ My two brothers, Gaillard and Edmund de Goth, at 
the Court of France.” 

“ The compact is completed — the covenant is made ! ” 
cried Philip, drawing forth a parchment covered with 
wr. ting, which he spread upon the altar. “ It needs but 
the manual signature of Bertrand de Goth, and the 
impress of the Episcopal signet-ring of the Archbishop 
of Bordeaux.” 

In turn, the primate drew back. Upon that parch- 
ment, in the Latin language, was fairly engrossed the 
six articles, to the fulfillment of which he had just now 
so solemnly sworn, together with the oath itself upon 
the host, the relics and the gospels, which no Catholic, 
do what else he might, could, once recorded, disregard, 
under penalty, as he believed, of undying infamy in this 
world and unending misery in another. 

Well might the primate draw back and tremble at the 


THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D’ANGELY. 49 

sight of this terrible record of an oath, which, unwit- 
nessed and secret, he had fondly trusted might be evaded. 

“ Ha ! do you hesitate? do you refuse ? ” cried the fiery 
king. “ Yet, be it so — be it so,” seizing the parchment, 
which he was proceeding to replace in his bosom. 

“ Sire! ” exclaimed De Goth, “give me the parchment!” 

The parchment was again produced. A pen was 
seized from the table, — the name of Bertrand de Goth 
was affixed to the record; beside it was placed a mass 
of melted wax, and on it was impressed the signet-ring 
of the Archbishop of Bordeaux. 

“It is done! ” exultingly cried the King. 

“ It is done ! ” faintly responded the priest. 

At that moment, the last low burst of the retreating 
tempest, which had spent its fury on the old Abbey of 
St. Jean d’Angely and its ancient woods, muttered sul- 
lenly in the distance. 

Silently — quickly, the tall tapers were extinguished, — 
the sacred symbols were secured by the primate, — the 
King seized his parchment and sword, — the door of the 
secret chamber was opened, — the narrow stairway, wind- 
ing steeply down through the massive turret, was 
descended ; and, when the King and the prelate emerged 
from the gloom, the bright stars were looking down as 
peacefully from their far, happy homes, as if the tempest 
had never burst, and the lightning had never scathed, 
and man had never sinned. 

An hour later, the morning broke ; and on — on, — for 
life — for death, sped a fleet courier on the route to 
Perouse ! 


50 


PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 


CHAPTER II. 

PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 

6 6 f | \[IE palace of the Louvre is, assuredly, of all 
I the monuments of Paris, that which most 
merits a visit.” 

Thus writes a Parisian of the nineteenth century; yet, 
a marvel and a mystery, as this mighty and magnificent 
structure now is, not less mighty and magnificent, and 
marvelous, seems it to have been five hundred years’ago, 
to the Parisian age of the reign of Philip le Bel. 

The old Louvre of Philip Augustus, “ that immense 
building, whose great tower rallied around it twenty- 
three other towers, without reckoning turrets — that 
hydra of towers, the giant guardian of Paris, with its 
twenty -four heads, ever erect, with its monstrous ridges, 
cased in lead, or scaled with slate, and glistening all over 
with the reflection of metals ” — such was the Louvre, at 
the opening of the fourteenth century. 

Twelve hundred years ago, when that splendid old 
Sultan, Dagobert, was King, the whole of the present 
Ville de Paris , — the whole northern bank of the Seine 
was covered with dense forest to the water’s edge. Yet, 
on the very spot where now stands the palace stood then 
a citadel and a church. It was a vast parallelogram of 
structures, the stone walls pierced with loop-holes, and 
surrounded by a deep ditch fed by the neighboring Seine. 


PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 


51 


In the year of grace, 1204, being the 23d of the reign 
of the great Philip Augustus, in the centre of this vast 
quadrangle of old Dagobert rose a mighty tower, and it 
was christened “the Tower of the Louvre,” although lor 
what earthly reason, no one seems to know. Other 
towers were added, to the number of more than a score, 
and the old structure, greatly enlarged, and st 1 ‘engthened, 
and beautified, assumed a shape and aspect, which it 
retained for a hundred and fifty years, until the reign of 
Charles the Fifth. 

The Louvre of Philip Augustus was, therefore, the 
Louvre of Philip le Bel. Although in 1305, it was, of 
course, just a hundred years older than when completed, 
in 1205; yet, at both periods, it stood as a sort of out- 
post, like the bastilles of Louis Philippe, just without 
the walls of Paris. 

Thus much for the chronology of the palace of the 
Louvre. The tower of the Louvre, or the Tower Pliil- 
lipine, or the Tower Neuve, as by historians it is indif- 
ferently called, seems to have been one of the most 
famous structures of the middle ages. Its form was 
circular, and a broad fosse y in which ran the waters of the 
Seine, bathed its foundation. Its connection with the 
paved quadrangle of the Court was by means of a 
ponderous drawbridge, and with the surrounding fortifi- 
cations by means of a bridge of stone, with a gallery 
above. Its walls are said to have been thirteen feet in 
depth, and its altitude was about seventy. But then, 
like all the other churches, palaces, and prisons of the 
feudal times, it stood “ up to its middle in the ground ; ” 


52 


PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 


there was as much of it below the ground as there was 
above : nay, its depth below the surface was, probably, 
far greater than was its height above ; for one of its 
fearful oubliettes is said to have been a hundred feet deep ! 
It was a tree with roots more extended than its 
branches. It was a prison, palace, church, sepulchre 
and, also, a treasury, with two stories below the ground 
and one above. 

Dreadful, no doubt, were the scenes which those myste- 
rious caverns witnessed, and dreadful, certainly, was the 
fame with which that dark old tower was cursed. As 
was said of the Piornbi of Venice, or Dante’s Hell, the 
man who entered those dreary depths might well “leave 
hope behind.” For more than a diundred j^ears, those 
vaults were the prison-house of criminals of the State ; 
and the horrible tales of which they were the scene yet 
live on the chronicler’s page. At length the horror 
arising from these tales of blood and cruelty caused the 
tower to be razed to the ground. Above the dungeons 
and oubliettes were numerous apartments, among which 
are mentioned a chapel, an oratory and a chamber for 
the royal treasures. 

The walls and structures which surrounded the cen- 
tral tower of the Louvre, and formed the sides of the 
quadrangle, are said to have been surmounted by a per- 
fect colonnade of turrets and towers, of all shapes, sizes 
and altitudes, each rejoicing in some distinctive appella- 
tion, indicative of the use it subserved, such as the 
tower of the Clock, the tower of the Floodgate, the 
tower of the Library, of the Falconry, of the Armory, of 


PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 


53 


the Grand and Little Chapels, of the Grand and Little 
Privy-Council Chambers. Each tower, also, had a cap- 
tain, who was no less a personage than some high and 
most mighty seigneur of the court. The main structures 
of the quadrangle are said to have contained several vast 
and magnificent apartments, amongst which were the 
Grand Hall of St. Louis, the Grand Chamber of the 
Council, the Hall of the King, the Hall of the Queen, as 
well as many others. It was, probably, the first named 
of these apartments, in which, uearly a hundred years 
subsequent to the period of which I write, Charles the 
Fifth spread that splendid banquet, which closed the 
festivities attending the triumphal entry into Paris of 
Isabelle of Baviere, — a banquet spread, as old Froissart 
tells us, upon that marvellous slab of marble, which 
“nearly filled one end of the Hall,’’ and which for length, 
breadth and thickness was then supposed to be, and in 
good sooth, not without cause, it should seem — “the 
vastest marble slab in all the world,” — a slab of marble, 
which, for two hundred years, subserved almost every 
variety of purpose, from a platform on which attorney’s 
clerks performed their mummeries, to a banquet-board 
at which only emperors, kings, and princes of the blood 
royal might sit; a slab of marble, which, alas, and alack, 
exists no longer! — the great fire of 1618 having very 
quickly converted the aforesaid slab, by fervent heat, 
into a mass of vulgar quick-lime ! 

The minor apartments of the palace of the Louvre, the 
chambers, galleries, libraries, oratories, refectories, labor- 
atories, kitchens, cellars and servants’ offices would seem 


54 


PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 


to have been literally numberless; to say nothing of 
stables and gardens, piscaries, aviaries and menageries. 

The entrance to the Louvre was by means of massive 
gateways, four in number, one in the middle of each wall 
of the quadrangle, each overhung by a turret ; and with 
portcullis ever down, and drawbridge ever up, they 
frowned sullen defiance on all who might approach. 

The view of Paris from the belfry of the grand cen- 
tral tower of the old Louvre, of a fine summer morning, 
in the time of the reign of Philip le Bel , must have been 
extremely fine. Prom the west comes sweeping on 
“the genial and abounding Seine,” and, passing through 
its beloved Paris, pours along its waters at your feet, 
and winds off with two prodigious bends, and is lost 
among the hills in the west. On its northern bank is 
the Ville of Paris ; on the island in its middle is the Cite, 
and on the southern bank is the University ; all three 
connected by two long and continuous streets from north 
to south, at right angles with the Seine, which they 
cross by two bridges of stone, — a massive castle stand- 
ing at the extremity of each bridge, and each extremity 
of each street being terminated by a massive gate in the 
city walls. For, then as now, though not one-half its 
present extent, Paris was environed with its wall ; and 
without that wall, at its base, was a broad, deep ditch, 
through which poured the waters of the Seine; and in 
that wall were ponderous gates; and at night those gates 
were closed, and huge chains were suspended across the 
Seine above the city and below, from bank to bank, and 
the lonely watchman walked his rounds, and sang — 


PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 


55 


“ Sleep on, good people of Paris I sleep on ! All is 
well! all is well!” 

As you look down from your lofty site, towards the 
east, directly in front of you rises the sharp Gothic roof 
and pointed spires of the ancient church of St. Germain 
TAuxerrois, with its stupendous rose- window and its 
tall arched doorways, beneath which, for many centuries, 
went the kings of France, so long as the Louvre was 
their dwelling, to confess their many sins. Pursuing 
the river bank, in the same direction, your eye is next 
arrested by the grim battlements of that stern old forti- 
lace, the Grand Cliatelet, for centuries a tribunal and a 
prison, standing like a giant guardian at the head of 
the Pont au Change, the sole connecting link at that 
time between the Cite and the Ville. From the Grand 
Cliatelet, the eye would naturally glance up the long 
street of the Temple, towards the north, until it 
encountered the square tower, flanked by four turrets of 
that massive structure, which, nearly two centuries 
before, Lad been reared by the Order of the Templar 
Knights. Turning back to the Cite , seated upon its 
island in the Seine, the attention is first arrested by the 
huge Palace of Justice, with its cluster of round -pointed 
towers, where old Hugh Capet fixed his residence eight 
hundred years ago, and which, for three centuries, was 
the palace and the prison of the kings of France. It 
had well nigh, also, become a church; for in 1242, St. 
Louis, in his pious zeal, reared in its very midst La 
Sainte Chapelle du Palais , and made it the repository of 
whole cartloads of holy relics — limbs of saints and 


56 


PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 


martyrs, and portions of the true Cross, bequeathed him 
by his pious grandsire, the emperor Baudoin. In 1813, 
the entire structure was rebuilt by his own grandson, 
Philip le Bel 

Glancing up the Island of the Cite, the e} r e next rests, 
as it passes, on the venerable Hotel Dieu, founded by 
the pious St. Landry, three centuries before ; but it 
instantly comes to a full stop before the massive twin 
towers, more than two hundred feet high, of the marvel- 
lous Cathedral church of Notre Dame, which, even then, 
reared as it was, on the foundation of old St. Stephen, 
its predecessor, was nearly eight hundred years old. 

Crossing the Seine on the Petit Pont with its three 
stone arches, and through, the cavernous gateway of the 
Petit Chatelet, the sole connecting link between the 
city and the southern bank, the eye sweeps over the 
abbeys, churches and colleges, with which, even then, the 
Universite was filled, and which gave it a name, but 
rests chiefly on the graceful towers of the Matliurines, 
the Bernardines, the Augustines, the Benedictines and 
the Cordeliers, and those of the ancient abbey of St. 
Germain des Pres. It pauses, too, upon the old gothic 
turrets of the Hotel de Cluny, and the romantic arches 
of the Palace des Thermes, — a Eoman palace in the days 
of Julian, but in the fourteenth century serving only, 
with its deserted gardens, and desolate chambers, and 
dim, mysterious aisles, to afford to the ladies of the 
Court a safe and quiet rendezvous, (according to St. 
Foix,) lovers they dared not meet at their own homes. 

Still descending, the river bank, you pause for a 


PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 57 

moment to look at the washer women along the quay, 
when your attention is finally arrested by the tall round 
tower of the Hotel de Nesle, directly before you on the 
north, the base of which is bathed by the rushing waters 
of the Seine, here crossed in the fourteenth century by 
the ferry of the Nesle, but in the nineteenth by the 
Pont des Arts ; while on the islet between is a garden of 
the Louvre. 

Such were the prominent points in the Paris of the 
fourteenth century — the Louvre, the church of St. 
Germain l’Auxerrois, the Temple, the Petit Pont and 
the Pont au Change with the Grand and Petit Chace- 
lets, the Palace of Justice, the Hotel Dieu, Notre Dame 
and the Tower of Nesle ; and such, strange to tell, after 
a lapse of more than five hundred years, even at the 
present day, they still remain. The very names of the 
streets, as well as of the structures of Paris, are, to a 
great extent, the same they were centuries ago. And 
these names of streets and structures, ns well as their 
several relative localities, the reader may do well to 
remember, inasmuch as they will be subject to reference 
more than once in the pages which succeed. 


58 


THE BRIDAL FETE. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE BRIDAL FETE. 

W HOEVER would revel in the recital of the. 

splendid deeds of a ehivalric age — the tilts and 
the tournaments, the sieges and the marches, the amours 
and the wassailings, the bridals and the burials, the 
glory and the guilt of feudal times — let him peruse the 
illumined chronicles of Sir John Froissart. 

“ Did you ever read Froissart? ” said Glaverhouse, in 
Walter Scott’s “ Old Mortality.” 

“ Ho ! ” was Morton’s answer. 

“I have half a mind,” returned Claverhouse, “ to 
contrive you should have six months’ imprisonment, in 
order to procure you that pleasure.” 

Tuesday, the 26th day of August, in the year of grace 
one thousand three hundred and five, was ushered in for 
the citizens of Paris by a grand peal from the twin 
towers of Notre Dame, in the Cite , to which the palaces 
of the Ville, on the north, and the Abbeys of the Univer- 
sity on the south, sent back an exulting answer. 

It was the bridal day of Philip, Count of Poitiers, 
surnamed the Long, second son of Philip le Bel , King of 
France, and Jane, youngest daughter of Othon Fourth, 
Count Palatine of Burgundy, and sister to Blanche, the 
wife of Charles le Bel , Count of Marche, the youngest 
son of the King. 


THE BRIDAL FETE. 


59 


In the year 1294, Jane, when but two years of age, 
had been affianced, at Vincennes, to her destined hus- 
band, and he to her, agreeably to the custom of the 
times ; and she was, accordingly, but fourteen when the 
bridal ceremonj^ was celebrated. 

Of the splendid procession of lords and ladies on that 
marriage morn, from the old Louvre across the Pont au 
Change, to Notre Dame — of the costly costume of the 
bride, and the gorgeous litter in which she was conveyed 
— of the solemn service of matrimony then and there 
read, by William Imbert, the King’s Confessor, and the 
still more solemn mass, with the ceremonies thereto per- 
taining, which ensued — of the magnificent pageant of 
the return to the palace, and the marvellous music of the 
trumpeters, and the glittering array of lords and ladies, 
and princes and damsels ; and of the sumptuous dinner 
then served up by counts and barons on the vast 
marble slab of the Hall of St. Louis ; — of all this, would 
it not seem presumptuous for us to essay description, 
when so many scenes of the self-same similitude are so 
vividly portrayed by the glowing pen of the Canon of 
Chimay? * 

The fete of that night, with which the events of the 
day were terminated, in the grand hall of the Louvre, 
was the most magnificent even of that magnificent era. 
All the beauty, and all the chivalry, and all the nobility 
of France were there assembled. The windows streamed 
forth the blaze of flambeaux, and the whole atmosphere 

* Froissart was priest, canon and treasurer of the collegiate church of 
Chimay. 

4 


60 


THE BRIDAL FETE. 


breathed a burthen of sweet sounds ; and all were merry, 
and joyous, and gay — all, save she who should have 
been most so — she, the young and the beautiful bride ! 

Jane of Burgundy was very young; but, like most of 
her coternporaries, her knowledge of the world far 
exceeded her years. Iler union with the Count of 
Poitiers vras not of her seeking; neither was it of his. 
It was simply an act of the ambitious and unscrupulous 
Philip of France to augment his power ; and little cared 
he whether the instruments which conduced to his pur- 
poses loved each other or hated each other. 

Jane of Burgundy was a beautiful blonde. Her eyes, 
her hair, her complexion, were all light, and her form 
was full. And yet, in her clear eye, and on her red lip 
was exhibited a degree of decision which her other 
features would never have betrayed. 

One after the other all the guests of that splendid fete 
.approached the bride and expressed their homage and 
congratulation. The devoir of each was courteously, yet 
coldly .received, and the eye of the young girl glanced 
.restlessly and excitedly around, as if in search of one 
who had not yet appeared. 

• At length, suddenly, at her feet, upon one knee, as 
was the manner of all, bowed a young man, in the garb 
of the court. His figure was faultless, his movements 
graceful, his dress rich and his face eminently hand- 
some, though ghastly pale. 

The cheek of the bride was instantly as livid as his 
own ; but, as he knelt, a flush mounted to her brow, and 
she glanced uneasily around. 


THE BIHDAL FETE. 


61 


“You here, Walter!” she at length exclaimed, look- 
ing down with all of woman’s fondness at the graceful 
form at her feet. “Kise! rise!” she added, extending 
her white and ungloved hand, which the young man 
warmly grasped and pressed in silence to his lips. 
“Why, oh, why have you come?” she hurriedly con- 
tinued. 

“To see you for the last time,” was the hollow 

answer. 

“The last time!” anxiously returned the bride. 

“Are you not happy?” was the quick rejoinder. 

“ Happy , W alter ! Look at me and then ask, if you can, 
‘Are you happy ? ’ ” 

The young man raised his eyes, hitherto fixed on the 
earth, at this imploring request, and the utter wretched- 
ness depicted on that pale but beautiful face, and in those 
large blue eyes, made him start. 

“Ah, you are as miserable as I am ! ” he murmured, 
and again fixed his gaze despairingly on the ground. 

“And you love me yet?” asked the bride. 

“Love thee! — more dearly than my life!” 

“And you will be true to me, happen what may?” 

“And you?” 

“Have you not my vow?” was the quick answer. 
“ That vow shall be observed, though my life prove the 
forfeit.” 

“Impossible !” murmured Walter, shaking his head 
with a mournful smile. 

“ Nothing is impossible to a woman resolved. Besides, 
Philip loves me no. more than I love him, and what is 


62 


THE BKIDAL FETE. 


belter, lie does love another as dearly, perhaps, as I do 
you. Stay! look! see you not in the shadow of yon 
alcove two figures — a man and a woman? The man 
is my husband — the woman is the Countess of Soissons, 
and she is as wretched as you are, and lor the same 
cause, and his vow to her is the same as mine to you.” 

The young man looked as he was directed, but made 
no reply. 

“I tell thee, Walter,” earnestly added the bride, “that 
this marriage is entirely an act of the King for the 
furtherance of his own ends, and that to resist his will 
would have proven utterly futile, either for Philip or 
myself, however much such might be the wish of both. 
But go, go! we are observed! The ‘King approaches! 
We go to Vincennes in three da}^s. You will be there,” 
she added hurriedly. “Now go!” 

The young man passed on and was lost in the throng. 

“You are pale, my fair daughter,” said the King, in a 
low tone, with his peculiar smile, as he approached. 
Then in a still lower tone he added, “ Be more cautious, 
Jane. The face often reveals what no torture could 
wring from the lips.” 

The warning was not without its effect. The signifi- 
cance of the royal words was too plain to be misunder- 
stood. Keassured, self-possessed — smiles which had 
long ceased to be seen now lighted up that beautiful 
face. 

“Poor thing!” muttered Philip, as he passed away 
from the bride. “It is plain she loves Walter de Launai, 
the handsome Equerry of Charles. Well, well — be it 


THE BRIDAL FETE. 


63 


so,” he added, with a thoughtful smile. “What care I? 
The bride loves the bridegroom as dearly as the bride- 
groom loves the bride, I’ve no doubt. But they must both 
. be discreet. I’ll have no scandal in the Louvre. Ah, 
there are De Nogaret and De Marigni, methinks. Let 
us discover of what they commune so earnestly.” 

Of the two men to whom the King alluded, and whom 
he now approached, one was William de Nogaret, 
Chancellor of the realm, and the other Enguerrand de 
Marigni, the King’s Prime Minister. The former was 
large in stature — the latter small ; the garb of both was 
black. 

“When the Minister and the Chancellor of France are 
observed in such close converse amid a scene like this,” 
remarked the King to the nobles, after the usual saluta- 
tions, “one may well infer that the topic of which they 
treat is one of some moment.” 

The two dignitaries looked on each other with ill-dis- 
sembled solicitude. 

“Sire, a courier has just arrived from Perouse,” said 
De Marigni. 

“ II a ! ” cried the King. “And the Pope — who has 
been chosen?” 

“Sire, the bitterest of your foes.” 

“And who, pray, may he be?” asked the King. 

“ Bertrand de Goth, Archbishop of Bordeaux.” 

“Indeed! indeed!” rejoined the King, with well -sim- 
ulated anxiety. “Then we must prepare for a new con- 
flict with Rome, I suppose; for the Holy Father is not 
only the most deadly of my foes, but he was the most 


64 


THE BRIDAL FETET. 


devoted of friends to Boniface Eighth, of cursed memory. 
When does the consecration take place?” continued 
Philip, after a pause. 

“ On the 15th day of November next, Sire, in the 
church of St. Just, at Lyons,” replied De Nogaret. 

“ At Lyons, say you ? ” 

“ At Lyons, Sire ; and your Majesty, together with the 
King of England, and an immense concourse of princes, 
lords and ecclesiastics, is to be bidden to be present.” 

“Well done, Bertrand de Goth!” cried the King. 
“ Why, he bears his honors bravely ! And the Cardinals 
* — have they been summoned to cross the mountains to 
assist at the coronation? ” 

“Sire, they have. Immediately on receipt of the 
decree of his election, the Archbishop, as if only await- 
ing intelligence of the event, at once entered on the 
exercise of Papal power. Leaving his diocese, he made 
triumphant progress through the cities of southern 
Prance, and repaired to Montpelier to receive the oath of 
liege homage from James of Arragon, whd placed Cor- 
sica and Sardinia under the protection of the Holy See.” 

“ Why, that, methinks, is somewhat in derogation of 
the rights of,our brother Charles of Yalois, who received 
the sceptre of that realm from Pope Martin Fourth, 
when Don Pedro was laid under the ban of excommuni- 
cation. Is it not so, gentlemen ? ” 

“ Sire, it is,” was the reply. 

The King looked thoughtfully on the ground for a 
moment in silence. 

“The Privy Council will meet in the morning to 


THE BRIDAL FETE. 


65 

confer on this event,” said the King. “I will detain 
you, gentlemen, no longer from the fete.” 

‘‘All goes well,” murmured Philip, as he passed on 
and mingled with the throng. 

A degree of license now pervaded the fete, as the 
night advanced, which had not at first been witnessed. 
The fair bride, having received the formal congratula- 
tions of the court, left her chair of state upon the 
elevated dais at the upper extremity of the apartment, 
beneath a canopy of sky-blue velvet bespangled with 
stars, and retired with her ladies from the hall. She 
shortly reappeared, however, divested of her bridal 
toilette — the tall head dress ascending to a point, from 
which descended a white veil to her feet — the full mantle 
of rose velvet, with its hanging sleeves, and the white 
robe, with its endless train, — and, simply att'red in shot' 
pink taffetty, with no other ornament to her head than 
the luxuriant masses of her beautiful hair, and no other 
ornament to her person than a zone of beaten gold, which 
cinctured her delicate waist. 

The reappearance of the bride was the signal to the 
guests to indulge without restraint in any of the modes 
of entertainment at that era in vogue at the French 
court. The night being excessively hot, the doors lead- 
ing to the royal gardens were thrown open, and the long 
avenues and shady alcoves were soon filled with prom- 
enaders enjoying the refreshing influences of the open air, 
or listening to the delightful strains of the martial bands, 
or the still more delighlful melody of the notes of love. 
Dancing, though sometimes indulged in, was rather an 


66 


THE BKLDAL FETE. 


amusement of the servants’ hall and village green than 
of royal gardens and courtly saloons. In those days, 
unlike the present, ladies were more skilful with their 
tongues than with their toes, and the promenade pre- . 
sented them an opportunity of listening to a lover’s 
vows and declarations, and of exchanging for them their 
own, which the dance could never afford. And, even to 
this day, all over Europe, the dance is eminently the 
amusement of the peasant, and has never in courtly 
circles superseded conversation, intrigue, music and the 
promenade. The savages of the Archipelago of the 
Pacific seas, and those of the North American forests, 
know nothing of amusement at their festivals but to 
least and to dance; and in one, at lenst, of the nations of 
Ohristendom, in modern times, imitators have not been 
wanting. 

The court of the Louvre, at the commencement of the 
fourteenth century, was far-famed for its brilliant and 
beautiful women; and among these, Margaret of Bur- 
gundy and Blanche of Artois bore deservedly the palm. 

The former of these ladies was the wife of .Louis le 
Hutin , eldest son of the King, and daughter of Bobert 
Second, Duke of Burgundy, and Agnes, the pious 
daughter of St. Louis. She was, also, Queen of Navarre, 
that crown having descended to Louis by the decease of 
his mother, Jane of Navarre, who died at the chateau 
of Vincennes, on the second day of April, 1305, a few 
months previous. Indeed, the robes of sable velvet yet 
worn by the young Queen, and which so well became 
her, although upon an occasion of bridal festivity, 


THE BRIDAL FETE. 


67 


indicated the recent occurrence of this sad event. Her 
figure was tall and graceful, and, notwithstanding her 
youth, exhibited all the full and rounded contour of a 
matured woman. Her eyes were large, dark, and full of 
fire — her hair, which was loosely wound around a sym- 
metrical head in heavy masses, was as black as midnight, 
and her complexion, in accordance with the hue of her 
hair and eyes, was that of a decided brunette. Hers was 
a beauty to command love — not to win it ; and, as un- 
mistakably were imperious pride and insatiate passion 
depicted upon that voluptuous lip, as was a strong and 
active intellect exhibited in that capacious and mascu- 
line brow. 

Very different from the proud Queen of Navarre was 
Blanche of Artois, wife of Charles le Bel, the lovely 
Countess of Marche. She, too, like Margaret, was very- 
young — neither of the ladies having yet attained their 
twentieth year. She was the eldest daughter of the 
Count of Burgundy and Maude of Artois, and sister to 
Jane, heiress of Burgundy, the fair bride. Only one year 
before she had herself become a bride, and just the 
twelvemonth prior to that event, had been witnessed the 
nuptials of Margaret and Louis in the Cathedral Church 
of Notre Dame, as well as the subsequent fete in the 
same hall of the Louvre. 

There was between Blanche of Artois and her sister 
Jane that indescribable resemblance which is often ob- 
served between persons bearing to each other the rela- 
tion of sister, when it is impossible to point out in what 
that resemblance actually consists, and when their style 


THE BRIDAL FETE. 


68 J 

of face ' and figure is entirely unlike. The form of 
Blanche, as it was exhibited by her white robe confined 
at the waist by a cordeliere of gold, and embroidered 
with thread of the same material, had all that full and 
rounded outline which gave such fascination to that of 
her younger sister; but in the movement of the former 
was observed a grace, and a dignity, and a maturity of 
elegance which the latter had not. The hair of Blanche 
shared that rich and abounding luxuriance which char- 
acterized her sisters ; but, though not black, it was 
many shades darker than Jane’s. Her eyes were a deep 
azure, large, brilliant, shaded by long lashes, and full of 
most eloquent but mournful meaning. Her sister’s eyes 
were blue and sparkling. The faces of both were oval ; 
but while the expression of Jane’s countenance was arch 
and mischievous, that of Blanche’s was sad and contem- 
plative. Indeed, the characteristic trait of Blanche of 
Artois’ face you would say was melancholy thought; 
and you would ask of yourselves and others the cause of 
that profound and changeless sadness, which forever rested 
on that beautiful face. That large azure eye, when it 
beamed most brightly beneath her broad and snowy brow, 
seemed steeped in gloom ; that soft lip, when it smiled 
most sweetly, seemed imbued with sadness ; that exquisite 
form, when it moved most gracefully, betrayed the languor 
of grief. Her voice, when she spoke, had the mournful 
music of a broken heart. Why was it that the most 
beautiful woman of the whole court of France, and the 
envied wife of “ the most accomplished man” — as his- 
torians seem to delight to term Charles le Bel — should 


THE BRIDAL FETE. 


69 


thus wear her loveliness forever shrouded in gloom? 
What hads/ie, the loved and worshipped of all in that 
splendid court, to disturb her peace? Was she not too 
young to have proven already the worthlessness of 
earthly things — the utter vanity of all worldly pursuits 
— the falseness of all human vows — the deceitfulness of 
all human hopes? Had she so early in life contracted 
that fearful indifference to everything, whether sad or 
joyous, which sometimes descends on the human heart? 
Alas! the mournful truth is as old as man’s history, 
that maturity of years is not indispensable to maturity 
of thought, and that youthfulness and suffering are not 
incompatible. 

“ Sad, as usual, Blanche ! ” gaylv exclaimed the Queen 
of Navarre, approaching her sister, who, half-concealed 
in the drapery of the window, was gazing, almost unseen, 
upon the gay groups with which the hall and gardens 
were thronged. 

“Ah, Margaret, is it you?” said Blanche, starting at 
the sudden exclamation. 

“ Yes,vit is I, Margaret of Burgundy, Queen of Navarre 
— to be sure it is ; and I’ve been seeking you, through 
bower and hall, the whole half hour last past, at least. I 
will honestly confess, however, that had I not been 
blessed with an agreeable escort in my self-imposed pil- 
grimage, I should have given over the pursuit long 
ago.” 

The escort to whom the Queen thus referred was none 
other than a tall, handsome man in a military garb, 
whose resemblance to Walter de Launai was so striking 


70 


THE BRIDAL FETE. 


that it demanded no peculiar powers of perspicacity to 
determine the fact that they were brothers. The only 
observable difference between the two seemed this — that 
Walter de Launai was some years his brother’s junior, 
and that Philip de Launai was as gay and dtbonnaire as 
his brother was sad and pensive. They were Norman 
gentlemen, of ancient family, who had recently come to 
court to seek their fortune ; and fortune seemed to have 
met them at least half-way ; for, although six months 
had hardly elapsed since they entered Paris with all 
their worldly goods upon their horses’ backs and their 
own, yet now one was Equerry to Philip, and the other 
to Charles, princes of the blood, and, what was more, 
one was a favorite of Margaret of Burgundy, and the 
other the secret and most unhappy lover of her sister 
Jane, the bride. The matchless skill of these young 
men in horsemanship and the use of arms doubtless con- 
duced as much to their success with the princes as did 
their remarkable good looks with their noble mistresses. 
They were alike then in good fortune and good looks. 
One thing more they were also alike in : they were both 
Knights Companions of the Ploly Order of the Temple. 
But this was a secret of which their noble masters were 
not aware, nor their noble mistresses. Yet, young as 
they were, both had bravely fought on a foreign soil for 
the recovery of the sepulchre from infidel hands, and 
both were warrior- monks. 

“ Have you seen Charles to-night ? ” asked Blanche 
of the joyous Queen. 

“ I caught a glimpse of Madame d’ A urn ale in one of 


THE BRIDAL FETE. 


71 


the alcoves of the gardens as we came in, and Charles 
cannot be far from the same spot.” 

Blanche became deathly pale. She compressed her 
lips, but otherwise manifested no emotion, and, remain- 
ing silent, the Queen thoughtlessly continued. 

“Why don’t you speak, Blanche?” she impatiently 
exclaimed. “Upon my word as a Queen, you are the 
strangest woman I ever knew ! Young, lovely, brilliant 
— worshipped by the men, envied by the women, the 
boasted beauty of the whole court — you might as well 
be the Lady Abbess of Maubuisson itself, as what you 
are, for all the enjoyment you seem to experience amid 
the gayest scenes, and all the gayety you manifest. You 
never dance, you never sing, you never intrigue — you do 
nothing under the heavens that other women do ; while 
upon your face, and seemingly around your form, you 
wear an everlasting shroud. In Heaven’s name, Blanche, 
smile! — do smile once, in order that I may be able to 
say that I once did see the Countess of Marche smile, 
when I am again asked the question, as I often have 
been. Oh, no — not in that mournful way,” she added, 
as the Countess strove to obey. “ Be gay ! be joyous ! 
get a lover! It isn’t possible you heed Charles’ amours. 
It’s the men’s privilege, I suppose. They assume it, at 
any rate. I was jealous of Louis for about three months 
after our marriage, and at length saw the folly of the 
thing. Since then he intrigues as he choses, for all I care, 
and I take the same liberty. But you, Blanche — you 
are a perfect miracle of constancy — I had almost said of 
folly” 


72 


THE BRIDAL FETE. 


The Countess of Marche changed color repeatedly 
while the thoughtless Queen of Navarre thus heedlessly 
hurried on, and more than once a slight shudder ran 
over her frame. But further than this she exhibited not 
the slightest agitation. Her marble brow remained as 
calm, her cheek as pale, her lip as motionless as ever, 
and her large bright eyes were fixed with the same 
melancholy gaze on the gay and moving scene. 

Suddenly, as the Queen ceased to speak, she grasped 
her arm, and, with more of interest than she would have 
been deemed capable of exhibiting for anything, she 
exclaimed . 

“ Margaret, Margaret, who is that ? ” at the same 
time pointing at some person in the crowded hall. 

“ Who is who, and where is he ? ” returned the Queen. 
“ On my word, Blanche, you are a curiosity ! Here 
have I, a crowned Queen, been proclaiming to you, a 
simple Countess, a whole sermon of good advice, which 
would put to the blush one of old Father Maillard’s best 
discourses, with which we are regaled every Sunday at 
St. Germain, and you have bestowed upon it just about 
as much notice as I usually bestow on those of the 
old Dominican — actually sleeping, or seeming to sleep, 
throughout the whole! And then, all at once, at its 
conclusion, you almost deafen me with the exclamation 
of a sentry at his post, “Who goes there? ” But Heaven 
and all the saints be glorified that you are not dead! 
Now, then, if you can condescend to speak once more, 
where is the individual who has been so fortunate as 
to elicit from you an inquiry ? ” 


. THE BRIDAL FETE. 


73 


“There! there!” eagerly exclaimed Blanche, whose 
eyes had followed the object of her curiosity while the 
Queen had been speaking. “There — near the door 
leading into the gardens!” 

“Do you mean that pale young man in the colors of 
our uncle Charles of Valois, who is walking with one of 
■my ladies? ” 

“ Yes, yes ; I have seen him repeatedly to-night, and 
always with the same lady ; Marie Morfontaine, is it 
not? ” replied the Countess, with heightened color. 

“ Yes, it is my sweet Marie,” rejoined Margaret, “and 
that young man is her lover. He has just arrived with 
despatches from Charles’ camp.” 

“Ah!” returned the Countess, in a tone which was 
almost a sigh, while her countenance fell. 

“It is young De Marigni, is it not, Philip ? ” asked 
the Queen, addressing for the first time the young man 
at her side, on whose arm she had not ceased to lean 
since they had appeared. 

“It is De Marigni, your Majesty — Adrian de 
Marigni,” replied the young man. “He is the only son 
of the Prime Minister. He is from Normandy, like 
myself, and our boyhood was passed together. We 
have, also, served in the same troop in Flanders, under 
Count Charles of Valois. He was at Brussels and at 
Courtray, and also at Mons-en-Puelle, where twenty-five 
thousands Flemings were cut in pieces. He is a per- 
fect lion on the battle-field, modest and inoffensive as he 
seems now.” 

“ Why is he so pale?” asked Blanche. 


74 


THE BRIDAL FETE. 


“ He was severely wounded at Mons, madam e. He 
was left for dead, indeed, upon tlie field ; but the cold 
dews of the night revived him, and be managed to dis- 
encumber liimself from the heaps of Flemings who 
had fallen by his hand around him, and creep into the 
camp.” 

“And what was his reward for such gallantry?” 
inquired Blanche. 

“He was the next day knighted, madame, on the very 
spot drenched with his blood, by the accolade of Prince 
Charles himself and with the title of Count Le Portier.” 

“A family name is it not ? ’’asked the Countess. 

“ It is the name of a noble and ancient Norman family, 
madame, which Adrian’s grandsire, Hugh Le Portier, 
Lord of Posey and Lyons, resigned on his marriage with 
the heiress of the Count de Marigni — at least so far 
as his children were concerned, who bore their mother’s 
name.” 

“ And one of these children was the Enguerrand de 
Marigni, the Minister? ” continued the Countess. 

“ Oh, to be sure it was ! ” said Margaret. “ flow 
tedious you are with your questions about this young 
Count. If he inspires the same interest in the King 
that he seems to have roused in you, he bids fair to rise 
as rapidly as his father did before him.” 

“ And how rapidly was that, Margaret ? .” asked the 
Countess. 

“What! does your curiosity extend to the father as 
well as the son? ” said the Queen, laughing. “ Tell her 
all about the dear De Marignis, if you can, Philip. I 


THE BRIDAL FETE. 


75 


don’t burthen my memory with such stupid matters, of 
course.” 

“ I know nothing of the Sieur de Marigni, madame,” 
replied the young Norman, “save what came to us by 
common rumor in my native village, where deep interest 
was felt in the fortunes of one who had gone forth from 
our midst, and also what I have since heard at the 
court. I’ve heard my father say, and also Adrian, when 
we were boys, that the moment the young Enguerrand 
appeared at court, the graces of his person, the elegance 
of his manners and the brilliancy of his talents arrested 
attention. This was many years ago. At length his 
political knowledge attracted the notice of his Majesty, 
who appointed him, first, a member of his council, then 
gave him the post of Chamberlain, next created him 
Count of Longueville, and finally has made him Gov- 
ernor of the Louvre, Master of the Household, and last 
of all Prime Minister of the realm.” 

“ For all which accumulation of favors lie has accumu- 
lated the envy and hostility of the whole court, in exact 
proportion,” said the Queen. “ But come, come — let us 
go. These De Marignis will be the death of me if we 
tarry longer. Besides, the bride has gone to her charm 
ber, and the guests are going to their homes. I must go 
to mine.” 

“ Stay with me to-night at the Louvre, Margaret,” 
said Blanche. 

“ No,” was the quick answer, “ oh no. I must cross 
the Seine. You would not have me recreant to my 
trust, would you? While Louis is ruling our little 
5 


76 


THE BRIDAL FETE’. 


realm of Navarre, at Pampeluna, and the Constable of 
Nesle is in camp in Flanders, the hotel is entrusted entirely 
to the governance of the young Countess and myself; and 
we dare not desert our post even for a single night. So 
adieu to you, Blanche, and happy dreams.” 

“Shall I attend your Majesty to the barge?” asked 
Philip de Launai. 

“Shall you? Why to be sure you shall!” was the 
abrupt answer. “ You didn’t think I was to pass the 
sentries and cross the drawbridge alone ? Come ! ” 

And putting her arm through that of her companion, 
•the .young Queen of Navarre turned to depart. 

At the entrance to the hall, the couple were detained a 
few moments by the crowd ; and, as the sad Countess of 
Marche passed them, unobserved, on her way to her own 
apartments in the Louvre, these words, from Margaret to 
.the Equerry, in low tones, caught her ear: 

“The half-hour after midnight — at the Tower of 
Nesle 1” 


THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. 


77 


CHAPTER IV 


THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. 

HE heavy bell of St. Germain 1’ Auxerrois had tolled 



1 midnight. The last reveller had departed. All 
within the Louvre had retired to their rest. The lights 
•were extinguished, — the music had ceased,- — the' garden, 
the quay, the courts were deserted. No sound fell on 
the ear, save the measured tread of the sentry upon the 
battlements, and, at intervals, the distant cry of the guar- 
dians of Paris, as they walked their lonely rounds: 

“ Sleep — sleep on, good people of Paris I All is well ! ” 

The apartments of th e princes' of the 'blood royal, at 
that era, were situated in that front of the quadrangle 
of the Louvre which faced the Seine. 

At a window in one of these apartments, which com- 
manded a view of all Paris by reason of its elevation, 
sat Blanche of Artois, the wife of Charles '!e Bel. 

Alone and unattended, she had sought the way to her 
chamber from the festal hall, and, having dismissed her 
women, had seated herself by the casement which looked 
out on the gliding water. 

From the quiet skies looked down the bright stars as 
peacefully and as calmly as, for thousands of years, they 
had looked before ; while, here and there, from the dark 
mass of irregular structures, which then constituted Paris, 
beamed out a single light of some lonely watcher. 


78 


THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. 


One bright spot which gleamed from the surrounding 
gloom was a cell at the summit of one of the towers of 
Notre Dame, which to this day bears the name of Hugo 
of Besan^on’s cell, where the learned prelate is said to 
have practised his black and mystic art. Beyond this, 
on the . south bank of the Seine, beamed forth another 
solitary light, from a tower granted by Saint Louis, more 
than fifty years before, to Bobert of Sorbonne for a college, 
in which should be pursued the study of theology ; and 
there some lonely student now continued his night-long 
vigil and toil. One other lamp, like a star, shone forth 
from the mass of gloom, and that was in the tall tower 
of the Hotel de Nesle, which directly fronted the south ern 
apartments of the Louvre, on the opposite bank of the 
Seine. 

Upon this last and lonely light lingered the eye of 
Blanche, as with cheek resting on her hand, her own 
lamp extinguished, she sat at her window, and looked 
forth with melancholy gaze on the silent scene. The 
soft breeze of a summer night, cooled by its play upon 
the surface of the gliding waters, came up to the case- 
ment with refreshing breath to her fevered brow. 

At length, the half hour after midnight pealed forth 
from the tower of St. Germain l’Auxerrois, and, taken 
up by the ponderous bell of Notre Dame, and the lesser 
bells of St. Germain des Pres, and the Holy Chapel of the 
Palace of Justice, died away in the distant echoes of tlie 
great clock of the Temple. 

As the last vibrations ceased, a small boat shot out 
from beneath the shadows of the Louvre, containing a 


THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. 


79 


single passenger, and crossing the Seine was again lost 
in the shadovvs of the Tower of Nesle. The lamp above 
which had served as a signal and a guide was instantly 
extinguished, and Blanche saw no more. 

For a few moments she seemed lost in melancholy 
thought, as she gazed on that dark and gloomy pile. 
Then her eye glanced to the heavens and roved from 
star to star, as if with agonizing search for the truths 
which at that era they were confidently believed to 
reveal. 

“Oh, if ye are,” she, at length, murmured, “if, bright 
orbs, ye are, indeed, the intelligences which foretell to 
man his fate, — if, indeed, on the blue firmament, ye unite 
the destinies of nations and of men, ye should often beam 
less brightly from your quiet homes than ye now do! If 
ye write the fates of all, as wise men tell us, there is mine 
written on your gloomy page. Yet, alas! what is it? 
This lonely chamber is eloquent of all that ye could 
blazon, — of all that the lip could express, or the heart 
could conceive. A wife without a husband ; — a heart 
formed by its Maker to love, and to require love, and yet 
without its mate ! Oh, Grod, how I did worship that 
man ! Never, never again will he be loved as I once 
loved him ! Heart, soul, thought, being, breath, my very 
existence, all — all were his! But now” she continued, 
after a pause, “ now — I love him not ! I deplore only my 
own desertion, — not his loss. I love him not. The time 
has passed. My very heart is changed in my bosom. It 
seems strange, even to myself, that I can be so utterly 
indifferent to one whom I once so dearly loved. It 


80 THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. 

seems strange to me that I should care actually nothing 
at all for the fact that he who should now be with me, — 
my husband, — is in the arms of another. Once it was 
not so ; and, oh, the agony I then endured [ Thank 
God — thank God, that period hath passed !” 

A pause of some moments ensued. 

“ The heart — the human heart,” she, at length, ex- 
claimed, in tones of mournful sadness, “ must have some- 
thing to love ! Rightly or wrongly, it must love some- 
thing ! Margaret — she loves — guiltily — darkly — des- 
perately ; yet, she loves ! Jane,— my sweet young sis- 
ter, — she who, a child, wandered with me on the great 
banks of the Loire, in our pleasant home, Burgundy, and 
as little dreamed as did I of our miserable womanhood 
to come — she loves and is beloved ; yet, though a bride, 
she loves not her husband, and he — loves not her ! Alas ! 
what a strange and wretched world it is! Those whom 
by man’s law we should love often love not us, and the 
great law of Nature often forbids us to love them : and 
those whom by man’s law we should not love, alas ! by 
Nature’s law, love us and we love them ! ” 

Again there was a pause of longer duration than 
before', and as at length the unhappy woman raised her 
eyes to the peaceful stars, those eyes were full of tears. 

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, “what is to be my 
fate ? I — I love, too ! At last this heart, which so long 
has slumbered, awakes and reasserts its claims. But can 
that love be returned? Alas! which misery excuses the 
other, that of the consciousness of a love which is crime, 
or that of the fear that this guilty love may not be 


THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. 


81 


returned ? But it must be returned it sliall be,— it will 
be ! A heart sucb as mine will brook no denial ! I 
care not that he now loves, or seems to love, another. 
He shall resign that love, — he shall love me, — or shall 
love not at all! What knows she, — a weak-hearted, 
simple-minded girl, of love ! For long months of loneli-' 
liess, he is the only being who has roused in this 
withered heart the first pulse of passion; and shall all be 
sacrificed to the fickle fancy of a silly child? My love 
for him exceeds hers by ten thousand fold, and so does 
my power to gratify all his wishes. Is he ambitious ? — 
the proudest station beneath the throne shall be his. Is 
he covetous of wealth ? — he shall revel in gold. Pleasure, 
power, pomp, — does he long for these? — they shall be 
his mbre fully than his imagination ever conceived. 
My influence with the King, though seldom tested, has 
always proved omnipotent when exercised. More than 
once he has consulted me on matters of the most momen- 
tous import to the welfafc of his realm, when he has con- 
sulted none besides, and it must go hardly if he refuse 
to me the aid which I render himi Yes — yes — ” she 
exclaimed with renewed vehemence, “he shall love me, 
even as I love him, — or both of us will die ! ” 

Dropping on her knees before a crucifix, she raised 
her streaming eyes to Heaven and exclaimed: 

“ Hear me, God ! To this object do I devote the rest 
of my life ! — to his happiness and my own ! ” 

For an .hour this unhappy woman, whose very nature 
seemed changed by misery in a single night, paced, the 
limits of her apartment in the most fearful agitation. 


82 


THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. 


The golden band which had circled her waist had been 
removed, and her rich dress hung in disordered folds 
around her beautiful form. The heavy tresses of her dark 
hair were disheveled and, strained back from her livid 
brow and face, hung in tangled masses nearly to her feet, 
while her large azure eye blazed like that of a maniac. 

At length she became more calm. The tempest lulled 
• — the billows sank — the quietude of exhaustion, — as in 
God’s providence it ever does, — succeeded. 

Seating herself again at the wdtidow, she took her 
harp, and, in low tones of touching sadness, accompanied 
it with the following song ; 

When the visions of life, evanescent and vain, 

With the hopes of our youth, like a vapor depart. 

Oh, what shall relume those glad visions again, — 

Oh, how shall those hopes be reborn in the heart 

When fading — still fading, like stars of the morn, 

The Pleiads of gladness go out in our sky, 

And, like lamps from the damps of the sepulchre born. 
They only illumine our pathway to die : — 

When the flowers of enjoyment are scentless and dead, 
And the chords of life’s harmony silent and crushed, 

Oh, what shall restore those ephemerals fled, — . 

Those stars so illusive, — those harp-strings so hushed ? 

They are gone — they are gone, — they can never return, — 
Those rainbow-phantasma, deceptive and vain, 

And hope’s vivid visions may brilliantly burn. 

Yet never more visit that bosom again. 


THE LOVERS. 


83 


CHAPTER Y. 


The lovers. 


,TS and tournaments, pageants and processions, 



1 balls and banquets, feasts and festivals, succeeded 
each other in uninterrupted and close succession for sev- 
eral days after the marriage fete. The whole Court par- 
ticipated in the entertainments of the Louvre, and all 
Paris assembled at those more public — especially at the 
tournaments which were held in St. Catharine’s square. 

The King mingled but little in these gayeties. His 
mind seemed profoundly preoccupied with matters de- 
manding thought. 

He was often closeted with He Marigni, De Nogaret 
and William Imbert, generally known as William of 
Paris, his confessor — his confidential advisers in all 
affairs of state ; and, on the morning of the third day 
after the bridal, William du Plessis, a Dominican monk, 
was despatched to Avignon, ostensibly to present the 
congratulations of the K’ng of France upon the accession 
of the Archbishop' of Bordeaux to the Papal See, but 
actually to maintain a system of sleepless espionage on 
all the movements and all the proceedings of the 
Sovereign Pontiff elect, prior to the event of his corona- 
tion. Nearly at the same time arrived at Paris, Gail- 
lard and Edmond de Goth in magnificant array, with a 
splendid retinue, ostensibly as legates from their brother, 


THE LOVERS. 


84 

tlie newly-elected Pope, to announce his elevation to 
Philip, — but really, though unknown even to themselves, 
as pledges for the fulfillment by Bertrand of the compact 
which had caused his election ; and still more really, 
and known to themselves and their brother, though 
unknown to all others, yet not suspected by the King, — 
as emissaries and spies of the Papal See at the Court of 
France. These brothers of the Sovereign Pontiff were 
young, chivalric and flashing; and, eminently skilled, 
as they were, in all the martial feats, as well as the more 
peaceful sports of the day, and intimately familiar with 
all the newest fashions of dress and inventions in 
amusement, they could but prove an immense acquk 
sition at the French Court to the.bfilliant pageantry then 
going on. 

In all these magnificent fetes the young Queen of 
Navarre was the acknowledged leader — the cynosure of 
a splendid Court, the star to which all eyes were turned, 
the observed and the admired of all beholders, and the 
Queen of Love and Beauty at every tournament. And 
even at her side is the handsome Equerry Philip de 
Launai ; and nightly from the dark Tower of Nesle 
gleams out the love-lighted lamp; and nightly, when 
the half hour after twelve tolls forth from the church of 
St. Germain l’Auxerrois, the solitary boatman crosses 
the Seine and the solitary lamp is extinguished ; and the 
sleepless watchman, as he walks his rounds in the distant 
streets, is heard to shout r 

u Bons Parisiens! tout est tranquille! 

; Dormez ! dormez! il est minuitl ” 


THE LOVERS. 


85 


The gallant bridegroom and the fair bride were, of 
course, participants in all the festivities of the occasion; 
and never seemed bride and bridegroom more joyous 
than they, although, as the etiquette of that era and 
Court prescribed, they were seldom seen together, and 
although the gay Count of Poitiers devoted himself 
more exclusively than ever to the lovely Clemence of 
Soissons, and the fair Jane detained always at her side 
her favorite, Walter de Launai. All of the young peo- 
ple seemed to have arrived in some mysterious man- 
ner at an excellent understanding with each other ; and 
faces, which on the night of the bridal fete seemed 
shrouded in gloom, were now all sunshine. Even the 
mournful beauty of Blanche of Artois seemed illumined 
with a strange joy; and so far from manifesting the 
slightest emotion of feeling at the opeifand undisguised 
devotion of her gay husband to the dashing Madame 
d’Aumale, it seemed, on the contrary, to afford her secret 
gratification. More than ever before did she mingle 
now in the splendors and festivities of the gay Court, 
and she seemed to have taken under her own special 
chaperonage the young Marie Morfontaine, maid of 
honor of the Queen of Navarre, who had been gladly 
entrusted to her care. To the fair Marie, as well as 
to her distinguished lover, the brave De Marigni, this 
arrangement was peculiarly delightful. In the apart- 
ments of the Countess of Marche was afforded them 
abundant and most undisturbed facility for the tender 
process of love-making; and it was, indeed, a high and 
most distinguished honor to any young lady of the 


86 


THE LOVERS. 


Court, or to any young gentleman, though even the son 
of the Prime Minister himself, to be under the protec- 
tion of such a woman as Blanche of Artois — a woman 
who, though yet not twenty years of age, was versed in 
all of the personal and intellectual accomplishments of 
the times — who could discuss theology with William de 
Nangis, write poetry with John de Meun*, canvass 
points of law with William Duranti, and dispute points 
of doctrine even with “the subtle doctor” John Duns 
Scotus himself. Nor is it strange that a man like 
Philip the Fourth, who, dead to all of the softer 
emotions of the breast seemed alive only to ambition, 
should have prized a woman like Blanche, differing, as 
she did, from all the ladies of his Court ; nor that, inas- 
much as he often availed himself of her erudition and 
sound judgment in difficult crises, she should have 
acquired over him an influence all the more resistless 
from the fact that it was seldom exerted. Indeed, it had 
become almost a proverb at the Court of Philip the 
Fourth that no one could divert him from a purpose 
once formed, or substitute for it another, save his 
accomplished daughter, Blanche of Artois. 

To the young De Marigni the attentions of the 
Countess of Marche, both to himself and the lady of 
his love, were peculiarly grateful — grateful not only 
because of that gratification experienced by every 
young man in the notice of an accomplished woman of 
himself and his destined bride — but because she seemed 

* Famous for his continuation of the celebrated poem entitled “ The 
Romance of the Rose," which was begun forty years before by William de 
Lorris. 


THE LOVERS. 


87 


to one whose whole life had been passed in the camp 
as the very incarnation of all that was lovely, and all 
that was brilliant, and all that was good. A gallant 
soldier and thoroughly versed in the arts and arms 
of war, he was as simple-hearted and as unsophis- 
ticated as a child in the ways of woman and the world. 
To him the bright and beautiful Countess of Marche 
seemed of a different species from himself and his little 
ladye-love, and, indeed, from every other woman he had 
ever seen. It is very true he had not seen very many, 
for from his boyhood he had been in the field; but lie 
had never even dreamed that there were such beings as 
the sweet and intellectual woman under whose favor he 
now found himself. 

There was another thing, also, for which the young 
De Marigni was grateful to his noble protectress. His 
orders, when he left the camp of Charles of Valois, then 
at Courtray, with despatches of the utmost importance 
for the King, were to tarry but twelve hours at the 
Louvre, and then, with all speed, to hasten back with 
the answer. But a word to Philip from his favorite 
Blanche had despatched another courier on the perilous 
route, and detained the young Count at the side of the 
lady of his love, and in the midst of the. most brilliant 
festivities Paris had ever beheld. 

Adrian de Marigni was about twenty-five years of age, 
yet already had he achieved renown for gallantry in the 
field of which even a Marshal of France might have been 
proud. Early- thrown upon his own resources, — with a 
strong mind, a sound education and a vigorous constitu- 


88 


THE LOVERS: 


tion, Tie had inured his body to hardship and fatigue, and 
accustomed his mind to prompt and energetic action, 
under every circumstance of emergency or need into 
which he might be cast. Destined from his boyhood to 
the profession of war, and familiarized by daily practice 
to all the arms and armor of the age, he had acquired a 
skill in their use which left him without a rival or even 
a competitor. Above all, he possessed that quality which, 
in a soldier, can be second to none other : he was thor- 
.oughly brave. Like all men, indeed, who are conscious 
iff power, lie seemed utterly unconscious of fear. And 
:yet, with all his accomplishments and all his abilities, 
and all his distinctions, there was not among all the offi- 
cers of Prince Charles’ camp a young man more mild, 
or more modest, or more retiring, or more amiable in his 
demeanor, than was Adrian de Marigni ; and surely there 
was not one more universally beloved. In person he was 
tall and slightly framed, and his hands and his feet were 
remarkably small. His Lair was brown, his. eyes a dark 
hazel, his cheek oval and bronzed by exposure, although 
his forehead, where protected by his military cap, was as 
white as snow. The prevailing expression of his coun- 
tenance was sad. Indeed, in the earnest, almost mourn- 
ful gaze of his large eye, and the unchanging quietude of 
his lip, the stranger might think he read the traces of 
profound thought, or of deep-seated sorrow, strangely 
enough contrasted by his fresh and youthful face. 
Strange enough, too, was the contrast between the ap- 
pearance of that delicate, almost effeminate form when 
in the camp or court and when on the field of battle. In 


THE LOVERS. 


89 


the former all was mildness and quietude ; but when the 
waphorn rang, a new spirit — a spirit from the very realms 
of the damned — -seemed breathed into his fragile form ; 
and, with dilated eye and set teeth, and livid cheek, the 
fearful phantom, like an incarnate fiend, swept over the 
field, and rivers of human blood followed the fiery flash 
of that terrible falchion! It seemed strange, unnatural, 
dreadful, that one so fair, and seemingly so frail, should 
possess energies so temble: and the iron grip of those 
soft and small and snowy fingers might remind the one 
they grasped of that slight and delicate hand — that 
.woman -hand — that hand of steel clothed in a glove of 
softest velvet, which once, by infernal skill and matchless 
mechanism, constituted one of the most exquisite tortures 
•of the Inquisition. 

Very different from this young soldier was the lady of 
liis love. She, too, was one of an ancient and respectable 
family ; but early left an orphan, her immense estates 
fell under the control and she under the guardianship of 
.the- Chancellor ; and thus came she to Court and into the 
train of the Queen of Navarre. Marie Morfontaine and 
Adrian de Marigni had been children together, and their 
attachment bore an early date. But Adrian had gone to 
the camp and Marie had gone to the Court, and years had 
passed since they parted. Their love was, of course, 
trustful, truthful, undoubting, unexncting — with but lit- 
tle of sentiment and still less of passion. It was not very 
strange that the young soldier loved his little playmate, 
for she had loved him and never had loved another ; 
besides, she was almost the only woman he had ever 


90 


THE LOVERS. 


known. She was beautiful, too; at least, she was so, if 
an exquisite little figure, joyous blue eyes, brown ring- 
lets, mischievous dimples, and teeth as white as pearls, 
lips as red as coral and forever parted by a smile, can 
constitute beauty in a young girl of sixteen. And then 
she had the very littlest foot in the world ! Her love 
for Adrian was that of a child — almost that of a sister 
for a brother. When he caressed her she caressed him 
again. When he fixed his earnest and mournful gaze 
upon her fair young face, and seemed looking down into 
the very depths of her soul, enwrapped in mute thought 
and speechless feeling, she wondered — the simple-hear- 
ted girl — that he was so silent and so sad. “Why 
don’t you talk to me, Adrian? ” she would, at 
such times, often ask. “Why do you look so sad?” 
And then her lover would gaze upon her more sadly 
still; and while a mournful smile played upon his lip as 
he pressed it to her forehead, he would shake his head, 
but speak not a word. Alas! he felt, though he could 
comprehend it not, that her simple and child-like nature 
understood not and sympathized not with his. And yet 
Marie loved him dearly — she thought she loved him 
better than all the world beside ; she did love him as 
well as she could love any one — as Well as one like her 
could love one like him ; she was proud of him as her 
lover ; she wondered at his achievements, and she 
thought it strange, very strange, that her little playmate 
should have done such wondrous deeds. Sometimes, 
indeed, she would question him of his battles and his 
camp life; but almost instantly she would turn pale 


THE LOVERS. 


91 


and shudder, and cover her eyes with her hands, and 
beseech him to cease, and cling trembling to his breast 
as if for protection against the fearful shapes of her own 
fancy, which his words had conjured into being. Some- 
times she would examine his hands with childlike sim- 
plicity and wonder that such small and white and deli- 
cate hands could ever have w r orn an iron glove and 
grasped a blade or a lance, and have become — oh, 
horror ! — incarnadined with human gore ! 

Sometimes Adrian would smile when she thus talked 
to him, and sometimes he would sigh. Sometimes he 
would clasp her fairy form to his bosom as he would that 
of a child, and press his warm lips to hers ; and some- 
times, and oftener of late than at first, he would quietly 
kiss her hand, and making some excuse to leave her 
would pass into the apartments of the Countess of 
Marche, which were ever open to him, and where he 
was always received with smiles; and there, hour after 
hour, would he sit at her feet as if entranced, gazing 
upon her face as that of a lovely vision, and listening to 
the thrilling tones of her harp or the still more thrilling 
notes of her sad yet most eloquent tongue. 

6 


92 


THE ROYAL HUNT. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE ROYAL HUNT. 


NE morning, about a week after the bridal fete, 



vj the paved court of the Louvre was all alive, 
long before the dawn, with horses, and hounds, and hunts- 
men, and hostlers, assembled and making ready for a 
hunt in the forest of St. Germain, each man and beast 
making, also, to all appearance, just as much uproar, 
and as uselessly, as he possibly could. 

This expedition was at the suggestion of the Countess 
of Marche, and the whole Court were enlisted to par- 
ticipate in the amusement. 

The good people of Paris were earlier risers in 1305 
■than they are at the present day; and long before the 
early summer sun had shown his red face through 
the mists of the Seine, above the forest of Vincennes, 
the whole magnificent cortege was mounted and in 
motion. 

As Blanche of Artois had descended from her 
chamber, accompanied by Marie Morfontaine, who 
was now retained constantly near her, and was enter- 
ing the court -yard preparatory to mounting her horse, 
she encountered Edmond de Goth, the gallant envoy 
from the Pope. At the same moment, Adrian de 
Marigni approached to offer his services as usual to 
Marie. Blanche, however, immediately advanced and 


THE ROYAL HUNT. 


93 


took his arm. Then, turning to De Goth, she quietly 
remarked, with one of her sweetest smiles : 

“You will take good care of Mademoiselle Morfon- 
taine, if you please, Sir Count. She is of the utmost 
value to the Count le Portier, and hardly less to me.” 

This remark, simple as it was, of course destined the 
unfortunate Marie to the gallantries of the envoy, 
instead of her lover, for the day, and at the same time 
destined De Marigni to the Countess Blanche. As for 
Marie, she was as uncivil and as unamiable as one of 
her gentle nature could be to her gallant escort, for 
the full one- half of one full hour, because of her 
disappointment, he being the innocent instrument 
thereof. But then her gay and girlish heart g'ot the 
better even of herself, and before the hour had actually 
fairly elapsed, she had come to the conclusion that 
Count Edmond de Goth was really a very gallant and 
4 agreeable cavalier — her bitter disappointment to the 
contrary nevertheless. 

As for the Countess of Marche, she Avas mounted on - 
a high-bred barb, of small size, delicate limbs, fleet as 
a roe and black as a raven. And surely, thought 
Adrian, as he threw himself, without touching the 
stirrup, lightly into his 'saddle, never had he beheld a 
more enchanting vision than was she on that soft 
summer morn. Her luxuriant dark hair hung in 
glossy ringlets from beneath a cap of black velvet, 
shaped much in the fashion of the riding cap of the 
present day — far down her shoulders. In front of the 
cap itself was a glittering brooch of rubies, which 


91 


THE ROYAL HUNT. 


confined to it a single ostrich plume of snowy white- 
ness, streaming in the morning breeze. Her habit of 
black velvet, cat low and opening in front, betrayed a 
most exquisite bust; and a crimson cordelilre around 
the waist, defined the delicate contour of its outline. 
No wonder that the young soldier, fresh from the camp, 
and all unused to visions like this, gazed on as if 
entranced. 

As for the other members of the cavalade, there were 
the King himself and his Minister, De Marigni, who 
was, of course, charmed with the distinction bestowed 
upon his beloved son by the brilliant Countess of 
Marche. Then there were Charles le Bel and Madame 
d’Aumale, and the Queen of Navarre and her hand- 
some Equerry, and the Count of Poitiers and his fair 
Clemence of Soissons, and the lovely bride and her 
devoted Walter, and many, many another fair lady 
and gallant gentleman, of whom history telleth much* 
but of whom, as not being essential to this chronicle, 
we must say nothing. 

Oh, it was a gay and gorgeous cavalcade that swept 
out from the northern gate of the Louvre, and up 
the Rue St. Honors, and through the gate, of the same 
name, of the city wall, and that, finally, as the sum- 
mer sun rose up in the eastern horizon, paused to look 
back from the heights of Montmartre on the spires and 
roofs of Paris, now glittering in the golden rays! 

And a magnificent panorama, indeed, was that which 
opened to the eye. The old Louvre, with its forests of 
turrets and its giant keep in the midst, the dark 


THE ROYAL HUNT. 


95 


Tower of Nesle rising beyond, the Gothic spires of St. 
Germain l’Auxerro's and its wondrous rose- window, 
the ponderous twin towers of Notre Dame, rising in 
massive squareness to the clouds, the glittering Seine 
gliding like a silver thread on a dark ground through 
its green valley, and, far away on. the left, the dusky 
pile of the Temple uprearing its huge shape, in 
ominous gloom, amidst its embattled walls — such, such 
was the scene presented to the gallant cavalcade, as, 
for an instant, it paused to look back, that sweet sum- 
mer morning, at the rising of the sun, on the retreating 
city. 

The cavalcade was followed by a large and noisy 
company of attendants — hostlers and hunters, and 
piquers and rangers; and, what with the incessant 
braying of horns, neighing of horses and yelping of 
a whole army of hounds, a Babel of discordant sounds 
was created, which might have roused old King 
Dagobert himself from his last resting-place in the 
neighboring Abbey of St. Denis. 

Behind this motley group followed more slowly a 
train of falconers, each bearing on his fist a hooded 
hawk, in order that the sports of the day might be 
diversified as opportunity might present. St. Germain 
is about four leagues from the Louvre, and as the 
Seine was twice crossed by the route, it was more than 
probable that a flight of herons might be raised from 
the dense mallows of its low and sedgy banks. 

For some miles the splendid company galloped gayly 
on, until it descended the river bank at Neuilly. Here, 


96 


THE ROYAL HUNT. 


at tliis tinrie and for some centuries after, existed only a 
ferry. At length, in 1606, Heury the Fourth and his 
Queen having been soused into the Seine by the horses 
attached to their carriage taking fright, the ferry was 
supplanted by a wooden bridge, which wooden bridge 
has itself, in our own time, been supplanted by a more 
durable and more elegant structure of stone. 

The river had been safely crossed, and the party was 
ascendiug the western bank, when, suddenly, with a 
shrill and plaintive cry, a large white heron rose from 
the neighboring reeds, and, stretching its long legs and 
broad wings, directed its heavy flight down the river. 
Instantly all was uproar among the hounds and their 
keepers, and half a dozen hawks were at once unhooded 
and let off by the falconers at the unhappy bird. 
Several of the horses, terrified at this sudden outcry, 
became restive, and the beautiful barb of the Countess 
of Marche, violently plunging and rearing, at length 
seized the bit between her teeth, and was off like an 
arrow down the precipitous path. 

Blanche of Artois was an accomplished equestrian, 
as well as a woman of dauntless nerve ; and had the 
route been unobstructed, she would, doubtless, not only 
have retained her seat, but have reduced her refractory 
steed very shortly to submission. But such was not 
the fact; and, swerving from the main road, the horse 
turned to the right into a narrow bridle path which lay 
along the heights which overhung the river. The peril 
was imminent that the terrified animal should leap down 
the steep and dash herself and her fair rider in pieces. 


THE ROYAL HUNT. 


97 


A cry of horror rose from tlie royal cortege as they 
beheld the danger, and several of the gentlemen were 
about putting spurs to their horses in pursuit, when 
they were abruptly desired to draw up by Adrian de 
Marigni. Fortunately the young Count, who was as 
skilled in horsemanship as in arms, was mounted on 
his own steed, which had borne him through an 
hundred battles, and on which, in any emergency, he 
knew he could rely. Plunging his rowels into the 
flanks of the noble animal, and at the same time shout- 
ing into his ears his well-known war-cry, in an instant 
horse and rider were flying like the light on the path 
of the fugitives. 

It was at once evident that De Marigni gained in 
the pursuit, and must shortly come up; but the peril 
was more imminent now than ever that the terrified 
barb, hearing the tramp of pursuing hoofs, might sud- 
denly swerve to the right into the underwood, and make 
the fatal plunge before his headlong course could be 
arrested. Nor was this apprehension vain, for the 
moment the flying steed perceived another horse upon 
her left flank, she suddenly wheeled into the under- 
growth which fringed the precipitous bank on the right. 
Two bounds and the animal was on the brink I Until 
this fearful moment the Countess had retained her self- 
possession, but now her fate seemed fixed, and, dropping 
the reins, she clasped her hands and closed her eyes for 
the dreadful plunge. 

At that instant — even at the instant that the flying 
barb, frantic with terror, beholding its peril, for a 


98 


THE ROYAL HUNT. 


moment seemed striving to turn, and then dashed head- 
long down the height — even at that instant a long and 
iron arm wound itself around the lady’s delicate waist; 
and when she again opened her eyes she was clasped in 
safety to the bosom of Adrian de Marigni ! 

“Ah, Adrian, I knew it must be you I” she mur- 
mured, clinging to his breast. The next instant her 
grasp relaxed. She had fainted. 

In a few minutes the King and the Count of Marche 
came galloping up, followed shortly by the whole caval- 
cade, at full speed. Throwing themselves from their 
horses, they at once gathered around the Countess, who, 
reclining upon a mossy bank on the arm of her preser- 
ver, was beginning to revive. 

“Is she harmed ? — is she harmed ? ” shouted the King, 
in tones of utmost anxiety. 

“Not in the least, sire,” calmly replied the young 
man ; “she has but fainted.” 

“ Heaven be praised 1 ” cried Philip. “ Why! I would 
as soon lose my crown as my daughter Blanche!” 

The Count of Marche, without littering a word, but 
ghastly pale, had leaped from his horse, and, kneeling 
at the side of his fainting wife, received her insensible 
form from her preserver’s arms. At the same moment 
Blanche slowly opened her eyes. They met the 
anxious gaze of her husband. Shuddering, she again 
closed them, and the ladies of the party now coming 
up, she was resigned at once to their superior skill and 
knowledge in matters of the kind, and was very soon 
restored. 


THE ROYAL HUNT. 


99 


The acknowledgments and congratulations which now 
descended upon the young soldier from all quarters were 
numberless, and were received with his characteristic 
modesty. 

The King himself warmly grasped his hand and pre- 
sented his formal acknowledgments. 

The Prime Minister was in an ecstacy of delight at 
the bravery and good fortune of his intrepid son; and 
Marie — she did all she could, poor little girl ! — she shed 
tears as freely as a watering pot does water ! 

All idea of pursuing the original design of a hunt at 
St. Germain was now abandoned, and it was resolved 
that a portion of the party should accompany the 
Countess to the Abbey of Maubuisson, near the village 
of Pontoise, which was but a few miles distant, while 
those who chose the sport should join in a hawking 
party along the banks of the Seine — it being understood 
that the entire cortege should assemble at the ringing of 
the Abbey bell, at that place for dinner: after which, 
such as official duties called back to Paris should return 
— the residue passing the night at Pontoise. 

As for Blanche of Artois, who had now entirely re- 
covered, she insisted upon mounting the horse of one of 
her women, and also insisted that Charles should return 
to the deserted Madame d’Aumale, and her own gallant 
preserver should be restored to her. “And it was so.” 


100 


THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 


IIE Abbey of Maubuisson, situated near the vil- 



JL lage of Pontoise, some two or three leagues from 
Paris, was founded by St. Louis in the year of grace 1270, 
a few months only before his decease. This was one 
among the numerous religious houses established and 
endowed by this “pious” monarch, both at the capital 
and in the provinces. Of the others may be named the 
Abbeys of Royaumont, Longchamp, and Lis, and the 
monasteries of the Jacobins and the Cordeliers at Paris, 
and of the Mathurins at Fontainebleau. St. Louis also 
furnished the Carmelites, Carthusians, Celestins and 
Augustins with houses and churches, and in the prov- 
inces established several convents of nuns called Begui- 
nes, from their founder, Lambert le Begue, qr, from the 
Beguine veil which formed part of their habit : and. 
even the Abbey of Maubuisson became, at a later period, 
one of their retreats, though originally a convent of 
Cistercians. He also furnished Father Robert Sorbonne 
with an edifice for the university bearing his name, 
since so noted. Last, though by no means the least, of 
the priest-monarch’s pious performances, the holy St. 
Louis introduced a branch of the Inquisition into France, 


THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 


101 


by and with the advice and consent of liis equally pious 
consort, Blanche of Castile! * 

Some days had elapsed since the occurrence of the 
events last recited. The hunting party had returned to 
Paris, with the exception of the Countess Blanche and 
her ladies, Marie Morfontaine and her lover, and Esmond 
de Gotl), the brother of the Pope. The Queen of Na- 
varre and her handsome Equerry also remained. The 
ostensible cause of Blanche of Artois’ retirement from 
Court was the observance of devotional duties, and that 
of the Queen was to keep her company, while the gen- 
tlemen remained because the ladies did. But the real 
causes of this seclusion were very different. 

In the apartments appropriated to the use of the Coun- 
tess of Marche, Adrian de Marigni was a frequent and 
ever welcome visitor. It is said that we are far more 
inclined to love an object we have protected, than one to 
which we have been indebted for protection. If this 
aphorism be true, it will go far to explain the novel and 
undefined emotions which had possessed the heart of the 
young de Marigni since his late preservation of Blanche 
of Artois. His thoughts by day were of her, and so, too, 
were his dreams at night. How often! oh, how often! 
did the young soldier, in the silent night-watches, awake 
from the visions of his lonely pillow, and almost fancy 

* In 1131, the Council at Verona gave bishops power to inquire into heresies 
and punish the suspected. In 1198, Pope Innocent Third sent two Cistercian 
monks into southern France, to converter to kill certain Manichean heretics. 
Thus originated the institution, and such legates were subsequently called 
Inquisitors. In Spain, Italy and Portugal this tribunal flourished from the 
first, but was never established in France until the latter part of the thirteenth 
century, by Louis the .Ninth, as stated. 


102 


THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 


tli at he clasped once more the phantom of that exquisite 
form to his breast, and gazed once more into the dark 
and mournful beauty of those grateful eyes! Awake or 
asleep, those glorious eyes forever haunted him ; and 
before him like a spirit wherever he might be — whether 
in his solitary walks on the river bank, or in the depths 
of the forest — by night or by day — glided ever that 
beautiful form — gleamed ever that eloquent eye. He 
had been always sad, but now he was more sad than 
ever; he had been always thoughtful, but a subject of 
reflection had now arisen in his mind, and a train of 
feelings and sensations Had now awakened in his breast, 
of which he had never conceived before. 

To Marie Morfontaine he had always been a strange 
being, but now lie seemed stranger than ever. She had 
never been able to fathom or to comprehend very well 
either his feelings, or his thoughts; and now they were 
utterly beyond her comprehension. At first she used to 
accompany him in his long and solitary walks, but she 
got tired of *his everlasting silence, and she fancied he 
Had got tired of her everlasting prattle, — though he had 
never told her so by word, or by look, or by sign ; and 
so it came about that the melancholy Adrian walked by 
himself, and the gay Marie whiled away her leisure 
moments with the gallant Edmond de Goth, who was at 
all times and in all places, and under every variety of cir- 
cumstance, her most devoted, humble servant, and who 
could talk forever and laugb as long as he could talk; 
and in both laughing and talking could fairly compete 
with herself. 


THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSOtf. 


103 


But Adrian’s walks were not all of them lonely. 
More than once had the fair Countess desired, to his 
undisguised joy, to be his companion, and more than 
once had this desire been gratified. 

It was during these long and summer evening rambles 
through the deep woods of Maubuisson that Adrian 
detailed to Blanche, at her earnest petition, all the inci- 
dents of his brief yet most eventful career. He told 
her of his battles and sieges, his encampments and 
marches, and of the novel scenes he had witnessed, and 
the strange persons with whom he had met in his long 
campaigns on a foreign soil. To these recitals Blanche 
would listen for hours in silence, her dark eyes fixed 
earnestly on his eloquent face; and when his voice 
ceased, she would sigh, and would feel that gladly could 
she listen thus forever. 

At length, one evening, when he had been reciting his 
adventures as usual, and they had turned their steps 
homeward to the Abbey, as the dews were beginning to 
fall, she remarked : 

“ But you never tell me, Count, of any of your love 
matters.” 

The young man smiled and slightly colored, but 
remained silent. 

“Have you had no affairs of the heart among all the 
adventures of your exciting career? ” she continued. 

“None, madame,” was the quiet answer. 

“Perhaps you were protected by a prior preference? ” 
rejoined the Countess. 

“I have never loved but one ; ” said De Marigni. 


104 


THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 


Blanche of Artois was silent for a moment, then 
hurriedly added : 

“ And that one ? ” 

“Is Marie Morfontaine.” 

“You were children together, were you not?” asked 
the Countess, with difficulty, after a pause.” 

“We were, madame.” 

“And you have loved from childhood?” 

“We have.” 

“ We f Then you infer that Marie loves you as well 
as you love her? ” 

“ I know Marie loves me, madame.” 

Again the Countess was silent, and for some time 
they both walked on without exchanging a word. 

“ Have you ever asked Marie to become your wife ? ” 
asked Blanche. 

“No, madame,” replied the young man with a 
smile. 

“ Ah ! ” returned the Countess quickly. 

“She has always understood, I suppose, that when she 
^became a wife, she would be mine. I have always 
understood so, and I think she has; and yet I have 
never asked her to be mine.” 

“When is your union to take place?” asked the 
^Countess, after a pause. 

“ I do not know, madame. It may be years hence. 
But she is young, and so am I, and we can wait.” 

“Do you know, Count,” asked the Countess softly, 
“ that you might marry any lady in Paris?” 

“I do not, madame,” was the quiet reply. 


THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 


105 


“Yon have no ambitious aspirations then, in the 
regard of a matrimonial connection?” 

“None, madame — none whatever,” replied the young 
soldier quickly, with a slight curl of the lip. “ My field 
of ambition is the cfomp — not the boudoir. I am no 
carpet-knight. Whatever I am: — and that’s not much, 
to be sure — I owe to no one but myself. I wish it 
always thus.” 

For some moments the Countess walked on in silence. 
At length she continued : 

“ Marie would be yours now , if you wished it, would 
she not?” 

“ I suppose, madame, she would. But my parents, 
especially my mother, are opposed to my marriage for 
some years yet. They say I am too young to marry,” 
added the young man with a smile. “ Do you agree with 
them, Countess? ” 

“ There must be some reason besides that! ” said the 
Countess, laughing. Then, thoughtfully, she added : 
“May it not be that they are opposed rather to the bride 
than the bridal ? ” 

Adrian started, and, in a lower tone, replied : 

“ Possibly it is so, madame.” 

“ A father is often more aspiring for his son than the 
son is for himself.” 

“ But it is my mother, madame.” 

“ A mother always loses a child when her son becomes' 
a husband,” interrupted the Countess. “ He is no more 
all hers, and he is all another’s. But suppose, Count, 
that your parents seriously opposed your union with 
Marie Morfontaine — what then?” 


106 


THE ABBEY OF MAUBEISSOtf. 


“ Then, madame, that union would never take place,” 
was the decided answer. 

“You would obey your parents at all hazards ? ” 

“ Most assuredly, madame. They gave me life.” 

“It seems then, on the whole,” Said the Countess, “an 
exceedingly uncertain thing when you will become 
Marie’s husband, if you ever do — is it not so? ” 

“ Years will pass first — but we shall marry in the end,” 
confidently replied the young man. 

“ Even if your parents forbid ? ” 

Adrian was silent. 

“ But do you not wrong Marie,” persisted the Countess, 
“in thus retaining her troth, under an uncertainty so 
great ? Do you, indeed, manifest true love for her — a 
disinterested desire for her happiness, by holding her to 
a pledge like this? Adrian, most women are wives at 
Marie’s age. I am myself but little her senior. Is it 
altogether fair to keep her for years in her present 
dependent condition as a ward of the crown, when a 
change might prove so much more preferable; and that 
dependence kept up too on such an uncertainty ? For 
years hence, your parents may not consent any more than 
they now do. Besides, you are constantly in the field, 
and your life — ” 

The Countess shuddered, and stopped, and became 
pale. 

“Madame, madame, I will make any sacrifice for 
Marie’s happiness!” said Adrian with energy. 

Blanche of Artois sadly smiled. She perceived she 
had touched the right chord. 


THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 


107 


“ Are you really anxious for this marriage to take 
place ? ” she resumed in low tones, after a pause. 

The young man was silent for a moment, and then 
replied: 

“I am less anxious, I believe, than I once was, 
madame? ” 

“ And why ? ” 

“ I do not know, madame.” 

“ Do j'ou think Marie understands you well — I mean 
do you think she can comprehend and sympathize with 
all your thoughts and emotions ? ” 

“No, madame; oh, no!” replied De Mar igni, sadly, 
shaking his head. 

“ And yet you love her? ” 

“ Does she not love me ? ” 

“Well, Count, I suppose she does,” replied the Coun- 
tess ; “ at least you think so, and she thinks so, too, no 
doubt. She loves you as well as she can, perhaps — as 
well as one person can love another whom she cannot 
comprehend, and with whose peculiar feelings she can- 
not sympathize.” 

“Butthatis not her fault, madame,” warmly rejoined 
Adrian. “ Her nature is different from mine. It is 
rather my fault, if the fault of any one. She is. always 
gay — I am always sad. She is always laughing and 
chatting — I laugh but little and say less. Nothing 
troubles her — everything troubles me. She — happy and 
innocent girl — never thinks, I do verily believe; while 
I — I am forever in a brown study, as she herself says ! ” 
“ And, knowing this, do you believe her fitted to be 
7 


108 THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 

your life-long companion, or you to be bers ? ” asked the 
Countess gently. 

De Marigni made no reply. 

“ It may not be — it assuredly is not, as you so warmly 
assert — her fault that you are not more alike ; but, if 
she is to be your wife, may it not prove your misfortune , 
as well as her own? ” 

De Marigni was still silent. 

‘‘Suppose, Count,” continued the lady, “suppose that 
your feelings for Marie were to change — suppose you 
were to love her no longer — ” 

“ That cannot be, madam e ! ” interrupted Adrian. 

“ But suppose,” resumed the Countess, with some irri- 
tation of feeling and tone, and with heightened color — 
“ suppose you were to love another.” 

“ Well, madame? ” said Adrian softly. 

“Would you then make Marie Morfontaine your 
wife ? ” 

“ Madame, I would — I would if — ” 

,• The young man paused. 

“ If what ? ” 

“ If she wished it.” 

“ And would you thus consult her happiness — to say 
nothing, of your own? Ah, Adrian,” continued the 
Countess, pressing her snowy fingers upon the arm on 
which she leaned, “ the human heart cannot love two 
objects supremely at once. Think you that Marie 
could be happy as your wife, loving you, and knowing 
—for such knowledge quickly comes to woman — that 
you loved not her? And do you think you could be 


THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 


109 


happy as the husband of one woman and the lover 
of another?” 

The low, sweet tones of Blanche of Artois trembled — 
her dark eyes were suffused with emotion — her white 
hand rested more heavily on Adrian’s arm — her form 
almost leaned upon his for support. 

De Marigni, more agitated than even his companion, 
dared not trust his voice in reply ; but he laid his hand, 
scarcely less snowy than that which rested on his arm, 
gently beside it. The touch, so light as to be hardly 
] erceptible, thrilled to his very soul ; and it thrilled to 
hers. 

“ Adrian,” said Blanche of Artois, in tones of low and 
melancholy sweetness, after a pause of considerable 
duration, “whatever you do in this matter, oh, be not 
hasty ! It is a terrible thing to marry and not to love ! 
It is a terrible thing to marry and to outlive love — either 
your own love or another’s ! But more terrible than all 
is it — terrible to your companion, and yet more terrible 
to yourself — to wed for life and fondly to love — yet not 
to love the being to whom you are wed ! ” 

During this conversation the pair had slowly ap- 
proached the Abbey, and were now in the shrubbery of 
the garden, and the shades of evening had deepened 
almost into night. 

As the Countess uttered, as if with an effort, the last 
syllables recited, she suddenly stopped, and her forehead 
sank on the shoulder of her companion. At the same 
moment a cold tear dropped upon his hand. 

“You are unhappy! — oh, you are unhappy!” he 


110 


THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 


exclaimed, in uncontrollable agitation, all tbe generous 
emotions of bis soul being at once roused, at the same 
time clasping her unresisting form to his heart. “ Oh, 
be my sister, Blanche I — let me be your brother I — tell 
me all — tell me — ” 

Blanche of Artois gently disengaged herself from the 
arms of Adrian, and, pressing his hand to her lips, glided 
into the Abbey and at once to her chamber. 


THE LETTER. 


Ill 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE LETTER. 

/ 

S EVERAL days passed. Blanche of Artois confined 
herself to her own apartments, on plea of indis- 
position ; and a sentiment of undefined delicacy pre- 
vented Adrian from seeking an interview. 

Long and deeply, during his lonely walks, did he 
ponder every tone, look and syllable of that strange 
conversation. There were some things, — many things, 
which to him were quite incomprehensible ; — and there 
were some that, unfortunately for poor Marie, he could 
comprehend but too well. The concluding incident of 
the interview seemed to him like a dream, — a confused 
and indistinct vision, on the remembrance of which he 
dared hardly linger. It was true, many wild dreams 
had visited him of late ; but this he felt was no dream, 
lie longed once more to meet Blanche. His heart bled 
for her. He would have risked his life to make her 
happy, as he had already risked it to secure her safety. 
Yet, notwithstanding, such was the inconsistency and 
perplexity of his feelings that sooner than have entered 
her cli amber he would have charged a whole city of 
Flemings, with Peter le Roi, the weaver, and John 
Breyel, the butcher of Bruges, at their head ! 

As for Marie, she perceived nothing unusual in her 
lover. He was always so silent and so sad that she had 


112 


THE LETTER. 


ceased to wonder at the cause, if lie happened to be a 
little more so, or a little less so, on any one day than on 
the day before. True, she would, once in a while, glide 
up to him, as he sat iu reverie, at an open window, and 
gazed sadly on the distant forests, or the blue hill- tops, or 
the summer clouds, or the rushing river, and, dropping on 
her knees at his side, throw her white arms around his 
neck, saying: “Adrian, what ails you? Are you ill? ” 

And then her lover would part the luxuriant ringlets 
upon her white forehead, and press to it his lips, tell 
her he was never better in his life; and she — happy and 
unthinking child I would trip away to amuse herself 
with Edmond de Goth and laugh at his courtly speeches. 

One day, the Prime Minister came out from the 
capital, and, having held a long and secret conference 
with his son, departed. But, from the subsequent 
manner of Adrian, Marie could gather nothing of the 
purport of his visit : — to be sure she did not try very 
hard, — and her lover with a smile declined satisfying 
her childlike curiosity. He left the Abbey shortly 
after, however, and did not return until all its inmates 
had retired for the night. Repairing to his apartment, 
he was about throwing himself on his couch, when a 
piece of pink vellum, delicately folded, and perfumed, 
and secured with a tress of bright black hair, instead of 
the floss commonly used for that purpose, arrested his 
attention. Finding the note bore his own address, he 
quickly yet carefully cut' the tress of hair with his keen 
dagger, and, unfolding the vellum, read the following 
lines traced in letters of exquisite form : 


THE LETTER. 


113 


TO ADRIAN. 

Thou dost not love me ! As the warm wind sighing 
Along the leaves of summer’s quiet grove, 

An instant swelling, — lingering,— then dying, — . 

Thus in thy bosom wakes the breath of love. 

Thou dost not love me! I have watched the bejyning 
Of that calm eye, — the quiet of thy brow, 

And sadly turned me from that placid seeming 
Only to sigh, — “ He loves me not ! ” — as now. 

Thou dost not love me! 'Well, — I’m not imploring 
A single throb, or thought, of thy young heart: 

Nay, I would not my own heart’s deep adoring 
Should to thy breast one sorrowing sigh impart. 

But I shall love thee! Vainly comes all warning 
Unto a breast where passion hath her throne, 

Upon whose heart, — an altar, — night and morning 
Rise tli an incense-cloud to love alone. 

I do not say Adieu ! — ’t were idly spoken, — 

For we shall meet, — shall meet as we have met : 

Thine eye will glance as coldly, — but no token 
Shall tell to thee that I can e’er forget ! 

With strange and conflicting feelings, again and 
again Adrian de Marigni read these impassioned and 
despairing verses. Then gazing at the bright tress of 
dark hair, and folding it within the vellum, he pressed 
the treasure repeatedly and fervently to his lips, and, 
placing it beneath his vest upon his throbbing heart, he 
held it there and threw himself upon his couch. lie 
threw himself upon his couch, but it was not to sleep. 


114 


THE VISION. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE VISION. 

/' 

H OUR after liour passed away, and still Adrian 
de Marigni slept not. The old Abbey clock 
tolled regularly the hours in drowsy numbers, from ten 
o’clock till two, and was regularly answered by the 
ponderous bells of Paris. 

To attempt to describe the young soldier’s feelings or 
thoughts, during these silent night-watches, were idle, 
lie could not have described them himself. 

Towards morning he fell from mere exhaustion into 
a troubled slumber. He dreamed. Pie was on the 
wide, wild ocean. The winds raved — the billows tossed 
around him. He was wrecked. Destruction was in- 
evitable. Suddenly the black clouds parted. A beau- 
tiful face looked down upon him — a white hand was 
extended — he was saved! That hand! that face! — it 
was Blanche of Arto's. 

The scene changed. He was on the scaffold. The 
headsman’s axe gleamed over him. For the last time, 
he opened his eyes to the bright world of nature. A 
guardian angel was beside him. It was Blanche ot 
Artois ! 

He stood at the altar. The hand of his little play- 
mate, Marie Morfontaine, was in his. The priest, in 


THE VISION. 


115 


snowy stole and alb, was before them. The irrevocable 
vow was about to be spoken. Suddenly between him- 
self and the altar rose a sweet, pale face. It was the 
face of Blanche of Artois ! 

Once more the scene changed. lie was on the battle- 
field. Plumes tossed, banners waved, steel clashed, 
blood gushed — death in all its most fearful forms was 
around him ; yet, through all, calm, cold, senseless — like 
a demon of ruin he swept. Before his flaming falchion 
full many a mailed form, full many a plumed crest, went 
down. At length, weary with the slaughter, as the fight 
closed, his battle-axe descended with crushing might on 
a form that had haunted him throughout all the conflict. 
That form fell. For an instant he glanced on his victim. 
The vizor of the helmet fell back. Amid the blood- 
mists of battle gleamed up a sad and beautiful face. Oh,* 
God ! it was Blanche of Artois ! 

Again the scene changed. Horror! — he was at the 
stake! An awful death awaited him. The red flames 
rose and roared, and the black smoke swept and eddied 
in stifling clouds around him! They parted — those 
clouds of flame and smoke: before him rose the face of 
an angel, with the eyes of a fiend ! That face ! — those 
eyes! — it was Blanche of Artois! 

Horror-struck, the slumberer awoke. 

The early summer sun was pouring its first red rays 
into the chamber. From the court-yard of the Abbey 
rose the rattle of iron hoofs upon the pavement, and the 
cries of attendants. By his couch stood a servant to say 
that in one hour the whole party would start for Paris. 


116 


THE VISION. 


Bewildered and perplexed, Adrian de Marigni de- 
scended to the court. During his absence, on the even- 
ing previous, be learned that an invitation, or rather an 
order v had arrived from the Louvre, for all of its accus- 
tomed inmates to be present at the reception of the 
legates of the Sovereign Pontiff elect, the Archbishop of 
Bordeaux, who brought to the King of France, with all 
his clergy, his chivalry and his Court, a bidding to be 
present at the city of Lyons on the fourteenth day of 
November next ensuing, at the Papal consecration. 

Adrian found the whole party already in motion, and, 
after a hasty repast, it was mounted and on the route to 
the capital. 

Never had Blanche of Artois seemed to De Marigni • 
so beautiful, and never had he beheld her so gay and so 
cheerful as on that morning. Her brief illness gone, she 
seemed another being. Her face was all smiles. 1160* 
dark eyes were filled with joy. Wit sparkled, jest 
leaped, repartee and rejoinder flowed from her lips. Was 
it possible this was the woman he last beheld? 

“ Do you design escorting me to Paris, young gentle- 
man?” she gayly cried to De Marigni, as he stood 
bewildered at the scene. “If you. do, ride up — ride up! 
Why, one would suppose you had seen a spectre last 
night, instead of sleeping as soundly as a soldier always 
sleeps until sunrise this morning, you look so pale and 
haggard! Come on, come on, or we shall be left !” 

And away she galloped, followed by the Count. 

As the party passed the scene of the late peril of the 


THE VISION - . 


117 


Countess, many congratulations were addressed lier 
upon the happy result, and many compliments to De 
Marigni. 

“ I suppose I am under everlasting obligations to you, 
Sir Count, for saving my life — am I not ?” remarked 
Blanche of Artois to her companion. 

“By no means, madame,” was the calm answer. “I 
should have done the little I did for any woman.” 

Blanche bit her lip, and urged on her steed without 
reply. 

Crossing the Seine at the Berry of ISTeuilly, the troop 
slowly ascended the opposite hill. 

“ I am told,” carelessly remarked the Countess to De 
Marigni, as he rode beside her, “ that you received a 
visit from the Minister last evening.” 

“ I did, madame,” was the respectful reply. 

“ And the purport — is it a secret ? ” continued Blanche. 

“ To you, madame, it is not.” 

“Well?” 

“ My father bids me return to camp.” 

■ “ And you obey, of course ? ” 

“ Of course, madame.” 

“ He wishes to remove you from the corrupting in- 
fluence of the Louvre, I suppose!” rejoined the Coun- 
tess, with a laugh. 

“ I think rather he wishes to remove me from the in- 
fluence of Marie Morfontaine” replied De Marigni, sadly. 

“ How ? ” exclaimed the Countess, with weli-feigned 
astonishment. 


118 


THE VISION. 


“ In fact, madam e, lie takes the same view of my con- 
nection with Marie that yourself condescended to do.” 

The Countess bowed, and slightly colored. 

“ He believes that years must elapse before Marie can 
become my wife ; and, inasmuch as Edmond de Goth 
has asked her hand of the Chancellor, he thinks I ought 
to resign it.” 

“ Edmond de Goth ? ” returned the Countess, thought- 
fully; “that is a proud alliance for a maid of honor of 
the Queen of Navarre.” 

“But you forget, madame, that Marie is high-born and 
beautiful, and the heiress of immense estates,” returned 
the Count with warmth. 

“Yes, yes — but you , Count, forget that Edmond de 
Goth is the brother of the Pope. And so you return to 
Flanders?” added the Countess. 

“ Yes, madame, yes,” was the sad reply. 

“You once told me — I forgot when — but you told me 
once, I think, that the sphere of your ambition was the 
tented field, and that alone — did you not ? ” 

“I did, madame,” said De Marigni. “It has ever 
been so, and hereafter will be so more than ever.” 

“How then does it happen that you have never united 
yourself with the noble Order of the Temple, or that of 
the Hospitalers? ” asked the Countess. 

“ There have been several reasons,” rejoined De Ma- 
rigni. “ First, my contemplated union with Marie — for 
a Templar is a priest. Second, the terrible secrets and 
infamous vices which are attributed to that powerful 
order; and third, even had I wished to become a 


THE VISION. 


119 


Knight- Companion of either order, it would have been 
no easy matter for me to accomplish my wish. The 
Templars are mostly in Cyprus, or in their priories. We 
have none in the camp of Charles of Valois.” 

“ There are a few in Paris, are there not ? ” asked 
Blanche. 

“ A few old knights — such as William of Mont- 
morency, John of Beaufremont, Pierre of Villars, Fulk 
of Trecy, Gillon of Clievreuse, and others, who are dis- 
abled for the field by reason of age and wounds — abide 
at the Palace of the Temple.” 

“Hugh de Peralde is the Grand Prior, or the Visitor 
of the Priory of France ? ” asked the Countess. 

“ I have so understood, madame.” 

“ It is a noble order ! ” exclaimed the Countess, with 
enthusiasm, after a pause. “ Were I a man I would be 
a Templar ! What wonderful beings they are! ” 

“ But their vices — ” began De Marigni. 

“Are the vices of individuals, not of a fraternity,” 
was the quick answer. “ Besides, one can pardon in a 
member of that glorious brotherhood what would be 
condemned in other men. How strange it seems to me, 
Count, that you are not a Templar!” 

“My connection with Marie ” began De Marigni. 

“But that has now ceased!” interrupted Blanche. 

“The terrible secrets and vices of the order,” again 
began the Count. 

“ But the order itself is a religious order. How can 
one like you be otherwise than a Knight of the Cross? 
I am told you are a model of piety in the camp, Count.” 


120 


THE VISION. 


“ Madame,” returned the young man, gravely, “ I am 
a model of nothing. My mother taught me never to 
neglect my religious duties, even in camp, as the best 
safeguard against vices.” 

“And you have obeyed her?” 

“I have tried to do so, madame.” 

“Why then do you not become ‘A Poor Fellow- 
soldier of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon? ’ ” 

“ Because— ” 

“Since you have resigned all wish to sacrifice the 
happiness of* Marie Morfontaine to your selfishness?” 
added the Countess. 

“ Then, madame, because — and this is a sufficient 
reason — I have no influence to gain me admission into 
that august order,” was the reply. 

“ Ah ! ” returned the Countess — “ is that all? ” 

The cortege had now reached the brow of the heights 
of Montmartre, overlooking Paris, and, galloping down 
the Rue St. Honore, it entered the northern gate of the 
Louvre. 


THE MISSIVE. 


121 


CHAPTER X. 

THE MISSIVE. 

T HE fete at the Louvre, on the occasion of the 
reception of the Papal messengers, on the night 
of September 16th, 1305, was one of the most splendid 
that ancient pile — even then ancient — had ever beheld. 

And of all this gorgeous scene, the idol, the orna- 
ment, the boast, the queen, was Blanche of Artois. 

Her very nature seemed changed. No one who 
had attended the bridal fete of her sister Jane, but a 
few weeks before, could have recognized in the splendid 
and most fascinating Countess of Marche, glittering 
with gems and radiant with smiles, the centre of all 
that was joyous and all that was brilliant in that 
proud ball — the sad, retiring, melancholy, deserted woman 
who had then been hardly seen. 

The universal admiration she excited communicated 
itself even to her unfaithful husband, Charles le Bel , 
and he was proud that the star of that brilliant scene 
was his own lovely wife. He even approached her with 
a courtly compliment on his lips to her transcendant 
charms, but before it was half-uttered he was dismissed, 
with a significant smile, to Madame d’Aumale! 

“Blanche has asserted herself at last !” said the gay 
Queen of Navarre to her devoted Equerry. “Her 
fright the other day seems to have worked a miracle.” 


122 


THE MISSIVE. 


As for Adrian de Marigni, he was indulged with 
scarce a smile or a word from the lovely Countess ; and, 
having wandered like a Carmelite through the lighted 
saloons, pale and silent, and sad, for a few hours, he at 
length resigned Marie Morfontaine to her avowed 
admirer, though not yet avowed lover, Edmond de 
Goth, and retired at an early hour to his chamber; 
although, in the language of old Froissart, describing a 
similar fete, “ the feasting and the dancing lasted until 
sunrise.” 

Several days ensued, which were occupied with a 
succession of festivities, at all of which Blanche of 
Artois was present, and in all of which she seemed 
fully to participate. Occasionally she was encountered 
by De Marigni, and occasionally he was admitted to 
her apartments ; but, although she conversed freely and 
kindly as a sister might commune with a brother, 
relative to his plans of life, or schemes of ambition, 
not a syllable was uttered on the topics of their late 
exciting interview or of his union with Marie Mor- 
fontaine, or with the Templar Knights. 

Meanwhile the order for his return to camp had been 
suspended. 

One morning, about a week after his return to the 
Louvre, he was in his chamber, when Philip de Launai 
was announced. 

“Are we alone, Count?” asked De Launai, as the 
door was closed. 

“We are,” returned De Marigni, with some surprise. 

“ Swear to me that what now ensues shall be secret! ” 


THE MISSIVE. 


123 


u I swear,” was the reply of Adrian after a pause. 

The young Templar said no more, but, drawing a slip 
of white parchment from his vest, placed it silently in 
‘ his companion’s hands. 

Adrian took the parchment and read the following 
message traced thereon in ancient characters, and in 
the Latin tongue : 

Adrian de Marigni, Count le Portier, is elected a Fellow 
Companion of the Holy Order of the Temple of Zion in the 
province of France. In regard of former feats of arm§ and 
a pure life, the novitiate enjoined by the canons is dispensed 
with. The initiatory ceremony of his reception will commence 
in the grand chapel of the Palace of the Temple, at the hour 
of nine, on the night of the twentieth day of September, in 
the year of Grace, 1305, and of the Holy Order, one hundred 
and eighty-seven. 

Hugh de Peralde, 

Grand Visitor of the Temple , 

In the Priory of France. 

To this missive was attached the huge seal of the 
order, being an octagon star, charged with a Latin cross, 
entwined by a serpent, and bearing the motto, “In hoc 
siyno vinces .”* 

“ Your answer,” said De Launai gravely, when Adrian 
had perused the parchment. 

“ I will be at the Temple at the appointed hour.” 
was the firm reply. 


* The device of the seal of the Temple seems to have been not always the 
same. At one time it represented two knights mounted on one horse, indica- 
tive of the poverty of its founders, Godfrey of St. Omer and Hugh de I’ayens 
having but one war horse between them At, one time, it bore the head of a 
man crowned with thorns, representing, perhaps, the Saviour. 

8 


124 


THE MISSIVE. 


“Write then upon the reverse of this parchment the 
words will come ,’ and subscribe to them your name 
and title,” continued De Launai. 

Adrian did as he was directed, and the Templar 
replaced the scroll in bis bosom. He then grasped 
Adrian cordially by the hand and clasped him to his 
heart. 

“To-night, at nine, will commence the initiation,” 
added the Templar. “At eight I will be here to guide 
you to the Temple. Be firm, be bold! — constancy, 
courage ! ’ 

l And without more words De Launai left the chamber. 


THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 


125 


CHAPTEE XI. 

THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 

T HERE are some structures in tlie capital of France 
which are interesting, not for what they are, hut 
for what they have been: — not for the embellishments 
of art, nor the decorations of luxury, nor the splendors 
of architecture, nor the perfection of execution or design, 
nor for magnitude of extent, nor even for antiquity of 
origin, but interesting, even to enthralment, though desti- 
tute of all these attractions, for the scenes which they 
have witnessed and the events which they have chroni- 
cled; for the catastrophes they have beheld and the 
associations they awaken; for the wild and thrilling 
emotions they excite and the mournful memories they 
suggest. 

One of these spots is the Palace of the Temple. 
Ascending the interior boulevards of Paris and passing 
the triumphal arches of St. Denis and St. Martin, the 
third or fourth street on your right is the Rue du 
Temple. Descending this street, ancient, narrow, and 
tortuous, and overhung by lofty and time-stained dwell- 
ings, you shortly reach a spacious area, in which stands 
a low structure of immense extent, surrounded by four 
galleries and composed entirely of shops and stalls, 
about two thousand in number, in which are offered for 
sale old coats and old hats, old shoes and old shirts, 


126 


THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. • 


old .boots, books, bonnets, and breeches, old tools, old 
iron, old furniture — indeed, everything old that can be 
imagined is here to be found on sale. The salesmen 

O 

themselves are old, very old — old men and old women, 
principally Israelites, while the place itself is called 
Le Marche du Bieux Linge, or “ The Market of Old 
Linen,” indicative of one at least of the objects of its 
destination. This market is quite a modern concern, 
having been instituted less than half a century since, 
and attached to it and bounding it upon the east is a 
spacious structure erected for the accommodation of 
debtors when this place was their sanctuary. On the 
south of this spacious area stands an ancient structure 
of stone, and this single structure, old and time-stained, 
is all that now survives of that massive and magnifi- 
cent edifice once known as the Palace of the Grand 
Prior of the Order of the Templar Knights in France. 

As early as the latter part of the twelfth century, the 
Templars had fixed on this spot, then embracing several 
acres and lying without the walls of Paris, for their 
palace, and here, in 1222, was completed that vast struc- 
ture, of which, after a lapse of more than six centuries, 
a remnant is yet beheld* 

Two centuries passed away. The Order of the Temple 
was abolished, but the huge central tower still contained 
the archives of the brotherhood, as well as those of the 


* The first chapter of the Templars In the city of Paris, which subsequently 
became the chiet seat of the order in Europe, seems to have been convened in 
the year 1147, in a structure long afterwards known as the - Old Temple ” 
standing near the Place St. Gervais, and to have numbered one hundred and 
thirty knights. In the year 1182, the order had located itself, as described, on 
a spot long known as “ La Ville Naive du Temple 


THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 


127 


Knights of Malta, and was still the chief seat of the 
blended fraternity in Europe. It was, also, the treasure 
house of the monarehs of France for four hundred years. 
Next, it became a prison— this black old tower — and its 
damp walls absorbed the sighs and tears of the unhappy 
Louis and his devoted queen for months ere they were 
led to the scaffold. Here, too, were imprisoned, at dif- 
ferent periods, among its celebrated inmates, Pichegru, 
Sir Sydney Smith, and the black Prince of Ilayti, Tous- 
saint Louverture. At length, and within the present 
century, this vast tower was demolished, and all that 
now remains to tell the tale of the grandeur of the temple 
is the Palace of the Grand Prior, constructed some three 
centuries since by Jacques de Souvre, who then held that 
high office. Philippe Egalite, the Duke of Orleans, 
father of Louis Philippe, was Grand Master in 1721, and 
caused the palace to be embellished and enlarged, as did 
also the Duke of Angouleme, his successor. In 1812, 
Napoleon designed it for one of the departments of 
government; in 1814, it became a convent of Benedic- 
tine nuns, which it still continues, and for the convenience 
of which a new chapel was erected thirty years ago. 
Such is the eventful history of this spot, and such are 
some of the scenes it recalls. But there are other 
circumstances associated with this ancient place more 
interesting than even these. Here was the chief seat 
of that wonderful brotherhood of warrior-monks, whose 
name, for more than two centuries, was the glory and the 
terror of Christendom, and which, as a peaceful affiliation, 
still exists. 


128 


THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 


The original edifice of the Temple is described as “ a 
grim, tall cluster of gloomy towers, standing in the centre 
of a vast embattled enclosure.” It seems, also, like all 
edifices of the kind, to have had its moats and its draw- 
bridge, its portcullis and its donjon-keep. It certainly 
had the huge square tower, already mentioned, rising 
above its walls, flanked by four lesser towers, and which, 
if chroniclers are to receive the credence they claim, like 
the great Tower of the Louvre, stood half-way up to its 
middle in the ground ; and of whose dungeons and 
oubliettes , and wells and in paces , and racks and question- 
chambers, as many terrible tales were told. Indeed, the 
Tower of the Temple was viewed by the good citizens 
of Paris and its environs, fbr many a mile around, with 
even more of horror than was that of the Louvre. A 
cloud of midnight mystery, inspiring awe and dread, 
hung around the stern and inky turrets of the former 
which existed not with regard to those of the latter. 
The Tower of the Louvre stood upon the banks of the 
Seine in the midst of life, and light, and action, and it 
was daily passed, and it was daily looked at, and might, 
perchance, be daily entered by almost any one. But 
the dark turrets of the Temple rose without the walls 
of the city, upon a solitary and unfrequented spot ; 
and within its dusky walls trod never a step save that 
of a Templar Knight. Upon its grim battlements no 
sentinel’s helm, or spear-point flashed back the rays of 
the setting sun; and no oriflamme rolled out its snowy 
folds upon the evening breeze. But there, at twilight, 
might be caught the outline of strange and ghastly 


THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 


129 


shapes, dimly defined against a northern sky, of dark 
warders walking their lonely rounds; while, above 
them, the vast standard sheet of the order — the terri- 
ble Beauseant — half black, half white — flapped with 
raven-omen its huge folds against the staff. 

And its dark and fearful history, too! — its racks and 
its tortures, its dungeons, its unheard of cruelties! 
And the midnight conclaves, the fiendish orgies, the 
blasphemous rites, the awful vows, the unnatural crimes, 
the idolatrous worship, the lust, the guilt, the inconceiv- 
able enormities of which the pale-faced peasant took hor- 
rible delight in making these mysterious chambers the 
scene ! — all of these circumstances tended to inspire an 
undefined horror of this immense structure — half palace 
and half fortalice, half temple and half prison — which, 
in the reign of Philip le Bel , early in the 14th century, 
had reached its height. Sooner than walk beneath its 
baleful shadows, the tired traveler would perform a cir- 
cuit of half the walls of Paris. The very birds of the 
air were said to avoid its turrets ; while all unfortunate 
fowls that did chance to pass over it, in their flight, fell 
dead within its walls! At night, the spot was as lonely 
as a grave-yard — as the ancient burial-vault of St. Denis 
— and when, from the tall and lanceolated windows of its 
Gothic Chapel, at the dead hour when spectres walk and 
the departed return, blazed forth red and lurid flames, 
and stra*nge sounds, as of the roar of organ-pipes, wildly 
commingled with groans of human anguish, and strange 
shouts and solemn songs rose on the blast — the late 
passer in the silent and deserted street would cross him- 


130 


THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 


self and hurry on; and, with trembling and superstitious 
whispers, bless himself aud say, “Hell is empty ! The 
devils are on earth! The Templar Knights hold the. r 
Sabbath ! ” 

Such being the dread and abhorrence in which the 
very name of Templar was held by the masses of the 
people in the 14th century, it will not be thought singu- 
lar that, although there were actually several hundred 
knights at that era in Paris, who had secretly the vows 
upon them, yet but few were generally known as belong- 
ing to the order, and the inmates of the Palace of the 
Temple at this time consisted only of the Grand Prior 
and a few superannuated serving brethren. The great 
bod} 7 of the brotherhood, which then numbered not less 
than fifteen thousand Knights, was at Limisso, in the 
Island of Cyprus, its last stronghold in the Levant ; while 
vast numbers were stationed in the Priories of every 
nation in Europe — not one excepted. 

******** 

Adrian de Marigni and Philip de Launai both dwelt in 
the Louvre. It was, therefore, an easy thing for them 
privately to meet in the former’s chamber, preparatory 
to their secret expedition at the hour appointed. 

Philip was enveloped in a huge, dark mantle, which 
concealed liis form, and at his side he bore a sword. 
Adrian, at his suggestion, was soon similarly garbed 
aud accoutred, and the two young men went forth. 

Winding through the dark galleries of the Louvre, to 
reach the southern gate leading out upon the quay, they 


THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 


131 


passed the apartments of Blanche of Artois. Philip was 
. some steps in advance of his companion, and Adrian 
could not resist the inclination to check his pace as he 
passed that door, through which he had so often and so 
eagerly entered. At that moment, the door, which had 
stood somewhat ajar, suddenly opened — a small white 
hand and a snowy arm were extended, and a soft and 
well-known voice whispered the mystic syllables, “ Con- 
stancy — courage ! ” into his ear. Catching the white 
hand, he pressed it fervently to liis lips. It was instantly 
withdrawn, the door closed, and Adrian hurried on to 
regain his guide, who awaited him at the foot of the 
stairs. 

Of this incident, De Marigni, of course, said nothing 
to his companion, and the two young men, having given 
their names to the sentinel, and received the word of the 
night, passed through the wickets and across the moat 
upon a single plank, and were on the qua}L Proceeding 
a few steps up the river, they stopped at a small cabaret , 
where were found two horses ready saddled and appa- 
rently awaiting their coming. Mounting at once, they 
passed rapidly on up the Rue St. Martin, then the chief, 
and, with the Rue St. Denis, the only, great artery of 
the Ville , and arrived, without interruption, at the gate. 
Through this they readily gained egress, when DeLaunai 
had whispered the secret pass-word into the warder’s 
ear. Emerging upon the open fields, the young men put 
their steeds to a gallop, and directing their route towards 
a huge mass of structure, looming darkly up on their 
right, from some portions of which bright lights were 


132 


THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 


gleaming forth on tlie gloom without, they found them- 
selves, after traversing a seemingly endless avenue, 
beneath the shadow of an equally endless wall, at the 
grand entrance, on the west side of the Palace of the 
Temple. 


******** 

The morning dawn was diffusing its white light over 
the towers and roofs of Paris, when Adrian de Marigni, 
pale and exhausted, emerged with his companion from 
beneath the massive gateway of the Palace of the 
Temple and directed his steps to the Louvre. 


THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 133 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 



IIE consecration of Bertrand de Goth,* under tlie 


_JL name of Pope Clement Fifth, in the city of Lyons, 
on the fourteenth day of November, 1305,* must have 
been a very splendid spectacle. Three months before, 
invitations to this grand ceremonial had been dispatched 
to the royal heads of all the kingdoms of Christendom, 
bidding them, with their Courts and their clergies, to 
be present. And a more brilliant concourse of Bishops 
and Archbishops, of priests and princes, of kings and 
cardinals, of lords and ladies, seems rarely to have been 
assembled, than that which witnessed the imposition of 
the Papal crown, by the hands of Matthew Ursini, on 
the brow of the two hundredth successor of St. Peter. 

The coronation ceremony having been performed, 
history -informs us that the Sovereign Pontiff returned 
to his palace, the tiara upon his head and the pontifical 
robes and regalia upon his person — his white horse led 
alternately by the Kings of France and Avignon upon 
either side, succeeded by Charles of Valois and Louis 
d’Evreux, the brothers of Philip. History also informs 
us that, when the procession had arrived at the base of 
the hill on which stands the church of St. Just, an old 
structure suddenly fell upon the throng, by which the 


* Some authorities say Dec. 17, 1305. 


134 THE PHINC3, TTTE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 

King of France and the. Count of Valois were badly 
wounded, the Holy Father thrown from his horse, and 
his brother Gaillard de Goth, together with the Duke 
of Brittany and a large number of nobles and monks, 
instantly killed; and, likewise, that, at a grand festival 
given a few days subsequently, on the occasion of the 
celebration of the first pontifical mass, a sudden fray 
arose, in which a second brother of the Pope was slain 
before his eyes. 

The first acts of Clement Fifth were to revoke all the 
ecclesiastical censures of his predecessor, Boniface 
Eighth, against the King of France, his kingdom and his 
friends; to remove the Papal See from Borne to 
Avignon, to elevate to the cardinalate twelve French 
bishops who were nominated by the King, and also 
James and Peter Colonna, and to restore to France all 
the franchises and power’s claimed by her sovereign. 

Thus were, at once, accomplished four of the articles 
of the compact of St. Jean d’Angely. A fifth was 
more difficult of fulfillment. This was the decree of 
infamy against the acts and memory of Boniface Eighth, 
which was sternly demanded by the King and strongly 
opposed by the Cardinal de Prato as perilous and impolitic. 
Overcome by this persistency, the Pontiff at length prom- 
ised compliance, and commenced the process by the con- 
flagration, in the public square of Avignon, of divers 
acts put forth in his predecessor’s defence ; but further 
proceedings were instantly checked by the college of 
cardinals with threats of the Pontiff’s immediate 
removal by force to Borne, if the acts were repeated. 


THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 135 

Convinced of the impossibility of the fulfillment of 
this article of the compact, it was reluctantly resigned 
by the King some months after, and in its place he 
demanded the. elevation to the throne of Germany, made 
vacant by the assassination of the Emperor Albert by 
his own nephew, John, Duke of Suabia, his brother 
Charles of Valois. The Pontiff, alarmed at the idea of 
concentrating so much power in a single family, imme- 
diately dispatched couriers, by advice of the Cardinal 
de Prato, to the German Electors, who, at this urgency, 
in a single week assembled in Diet and proclaimed 
Henry of Luxembourg, — one of the ablest and most 
renowned men of that era in Europe, — Emperor of 
Germany and King of the Romans. 

Furious at this double disappointment, Philip 
instantly left Paris, and on the evening of June 12th, 
1306, arrived at Poitiers, where the Sovereign Pon- 
tiff then lay confined to his bed by sickness, which sick- 
ness caused by his vices lasted for nearly a year. 

“ Pax Vobiscum /” said the feeble voice of Clement, 
as the King of France entered the darkened chamber. 

Philip returned no reply, but, with indignant silence, 
seated himself beside the sick couch of the Pontiff. 

“ Benedicite, my son,” said Clement again, saluting his 
guest and turning upon him an inquiring gaze. “Very 
greatly am I beholden to thy piety for thy present 
visit.” 

“To my piety, Holy Father!” exclaimed Philip, with 
a sneer. “ Oh, not all ! It was not regard for thee, 
nor even regard for the welfare of my own soul, that 


136 THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 

brought me from Paris to Poitiers, at a season like this, 
be sure.” 

“What- then, my son?” asked Clement, in trembling 
tones. 

“By St. Louis, this /” exclaimed Philip, with angry 
vehemence. “ To learn from your own lips whether you 
design, or do not design, to fulfill the articles of your 
solemn compact with me at the Abbey of St. Jean 
d’Angely ! ” 

“My son — my son!” expostulated the sick Pontiff. 
“Is this the mode to address God’s Vicar upon earth — • 
the head of the Holy Church ? ” 

Philip replied only with a sneer. 

“ Of what do you complain, my son ? ” continued 
Clement, mildly. “In what have I failed in the fulfill- 
ment of my covenant?” 

“The decree of infamy against that arch-fiend, Boni- 
face Eighth!” was the quick and angry answer. 

“ That was commenced,” said the Pontiff* “ but, had it 
been completed, the Papal See would now have been 
retranslated to Borne.” 

“The threats of the cardinals are said to have origi- 
nated with the Holy Father himself,” was the sullen 
rejoinder. 

“ Who says that ? ” asked Clement, quickly. 

There was no reply. 

“Yet, if you choose the alternative, my son, it is not 
yet too late. The decree is prepared,” he added. 

“Your Holiness is fully aware that I have resigned 
that article of the compact,” replied the King, with some 


THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 137 

confusion. “In its place I requested that my brother, 
the Count of Yalois, might be elevated to the imperial 
throne of Germany.” 

“And was that station in my gift, my son?” humbly 
asked Clement. 

“It was filled by your Holiness with Henry of 
Luxembourg,” said Philip, sternly, — “if report speaks 
true ! ” 

“And who says that V asked Clement. 

The King was again silent. 

“Henry of Luxembourg was lawfully chosen to fill 
the imperial throne, by a full Diet of German Electors, 
to whom that right of choice legitimately and solely 
belonged,” continued the Pope. “Had the convention 
of the Diet, or its action, been less precipitate, I concede 
you the influence of the Papal See might have been 
felt in favor of Count Charles of Yalois, the brave 
soldier and pious prince. But, as events, by the Prov- 
idence of God, did transpire, how could the Sovereign 
Pontiff have foreseen, or prevented, the event that 
occurred ? ” 

Flushed and excited, Clement closed his eyes and fell 
back upon his pillow, and Philip forebore to press a 
matter from which he could plainly perceive he had 
nothing to gain, or to anticipate. 

At that moment one of the attendants of the Holy 
Father announced the presence in the Palace of the 
Grand Master of the order of Knights Hospitalers of St. 
John, who had just arrived from the island of Cyprus, 
and craved audience on matters of high import. 


138 THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 

" Let him approach,” said the Pontiff, secretly 
rejoiced at an occurrence which interrupted a conference 
which had begun to grow embarrassing. 

The attendant withdrew, and, immediately after the 
door again opened, and Fulk de Villaret, who had 
recently been exalted on the decease of his brother, 
William de Villaret, to the high station of Grand 
Master of the Hospitalers, stood on the threshold. 

He was a large and majestic man, some forty years of 
age, and attired in the full costume of chief of his 
order. This costume was a scarlet cassock, or surcoat, 
with a broad octagonal cross of white linen sewed upon 
the breast, and a similar cross upon the back. Over 
this surcoat hung the full black mantle of the order, 
with che same cross sewed upon the left shoulder. His 
only weapon was a long straight sword at his side, with 
a crucifix hilt. 

“ Approach, son, and receive our blessing,” said the 
Pontiff, in feeble tones. 

The knight strode at once to the bedside, and, kneel- 
ing, the Holy Father laid one hand upon his bowed 
head and pronounced the customary Benedicite. 

The Grand Master then arose, and, having saluted the 
King of France, stood silent. 

“Your mission, son? — Speak!” said the Pontiff. 

“ My mission, Holy Father, is threefold,” returned 
the knight. “ First, to announce the decease of William 
de Villaret, late Grand Master of the Knights of St. 
John, my lamented brother, whose soul may God rest!” 

“ Amen! ” responded the Pontiff*. 


THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 139 

“ Second, to announce to your Holiness the election 
of your unworthy servant, Fulk de Villaret, as his 
successor.” 

“ Amen ! ” again ejaculated Clement. 

“And, third,” continued De Villaret, “to fulfill my* 
deceased Master’s dying injunction to repair at once to 
your Holiness, so soon as his last obsequies were cele- 
brated, and, at your feet, beseech sanction and aid to 
accomplish the . enterprise he had most at heart — the 
conquest of the Island of Rhodes and the permanent 
location there of the throne of the order, that, this 
fulfilled, his soul might rest.” 

Clement glanced at the King, and a gleam of joy shot 
from beneath the Pontiff’s shaggy brows. 

“But is not the Island of Cyprus already the retreat 
of your noble order, Sir Knight?” asked the Holy 
Father. 

“In common with the Knights of the Red Cross, we 
have there our seat,” was the reply ; “ but, in common with 
them, we deem it an insecure, undigniBed and unworthy 
station, in which both orders are subjected to most 
degrading exactions from the King of the Island. 
Besides, it is well known to your Holiness that the 
Knights of the White Cross and those of the Red love 
not each other ” 

“Too well — too well we know it, Sir Knight!” 
interrupted the Pope, with some severity. “The con- 
flicts of these rival brotherhoods liarve long been a scan- 
dal to Christendom and the Church, and have mainly 
conduced to the recovery by Infidels of the Sepulchre of 
9 


140 TIIE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 


our Lord. To uni te these orders into one* methi nks might 
heal this perpetual feud and most disgraceful schism.” 

And the Iloly Father again glanced slyly at the King. 

“Now, may your Holiness and our patron paint, most 
excellent St. John, forbid!” began the Grand Master in 
alarm. “We do beseech ” 

“Well, well, Sir Knight,” interrupted Clement, “we 
will confer on this matter at some other time. What 
advantage to Mother Church is to inure from this mad 
expedition, to which you now solicit our sanction and 
aid? Be brief.” 

“First, your Holiness,” replied the Grand Master, 
“Bhodes is nearer than Cyprus to Palestine.” 

“Well,” said the Pontiff. 

“ Second, it is more impregnable.” 

“ And, therefore, will be less easy of capture,” added 
the Pope. “ But, go on.” 

“ Third, it has a more commodious harbor.” 

“ And may, therefore, be more easily retaken.” said 
Clement. 

“ Fourth, its position, wealth, commerce and maratime 
power render it a worthy seat of an ancient older.” 

“And, fifth,” said Clement, “its conquest, while 
affording a brilliant expedition to one order of knights, 
would effectually prevent them, meanwhile, from trying 
their long swords on the steel caps of another! ” 

“ Besides, the advantage to all Christendom and the 
Church,” — began Be Villaret with renewed enthusiasm. 


* Pope Gregory X. and St. Louis, at the Council of Lyons, strove, in vain to 
effect this. The efforts of Boniface VIII. and Clement V. to the same end 
proved equally ineffectual. 


THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 141 

“ No more — no more, Sir Knight I ” said Clement, 
impatiently, raising his hand. “You forget that you 
are not on the deck of your own war-galley, and that 
onr ears are unused even to tones of command. Within 
two days you will have our answer. You can go, Sir 
Kni gl 1 1. Pax vobiscum I ” 

And, with a profound obeisance to the Sovereign 
Pontiff, and one only less profound to the sovereign of 
France, this great chief of a powerful order left thus 
chamber. 

“ What think you, my son ? ” asked Clement, after a 
pause, during which ’each potentate awaited speech of 
the other. 

“ Of what, your Iloliness ? ” responded Philip, starting 
as if from a dream. 

“ Of the conquest of Rhodes ? ” 

“ That it would prove one of the most brilliant 
events that could lend lustre to any Pontificate,” was 
the answer. 

“We agree, my son — for once we agree!” joyfully 
exclaimed Clement. 

Philip smiled significantly, but said nothing. 

“ But the means, my son — the Grand Master asks our 
aid, as well as our sanction.” 

“Your Holiness can readily advance a hundred thou- 
sand florins for such an enterprise.” 

Clement shook his head, then said : 

“ Well, granted. But the army? ” 

“Another crusade,” suggested Philip, smiling. 

The Holy Father seemed absorbed in thought. 


• 112 THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 

“That might do,” he, at length, said, “if skilfully 
managed, and the true object of the expedition only pro- 
claimed when the fleet was at Lycia, ready to descend 
on Rhodes.” 

“Your Holiness alluded but now, with the Grand 
Master, to an union of the two orders of soldier- 
monks,” observed Philip. 

“ Several of my predecessors have entertained that 
purpose,” was the answer. 

“Popes Gregory Tenth, Nicholas Fourth and Boniface 
Eighth favored the union, I think ? ” coldly continued 
the King. # 

“Yet, each was induced to resign the scheme as 
impolitic,” said Clement. 

“ Does your Holiness remark any contrast between the 
chivalric ambition of the Knights of St. John and the 
vicious indolence of the Knights of the Temple in their 
voluptuous retreats?” asked Philip, dryly. 

Clement started and then quietly replied . 

“ It is true, son, that the Templar Knights possess 
some of the richest portions of Europe.” 

“ Some of the richest portions of France they certainly 
call their own,” replied Philip. “ Is your Holiness aware 
that the income of this overgrown order is estimated at 
ten millions of florins annually? ” 

“Holy St. Peter! — is that possible?” exclaimed 
Clement, thrown for once off his guard by mention of a 
sum so enormous' at that time. Recovering his pro- 
priety, however, he coldly added: “ There is some bruit 
of vice in this order, is there not, my son? ” 


THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND TnE KNIGHT. 148 . 

“Your Holiness cannot be unaware,” returned Philip,' 

“ that, as an order, the Knights of the Temple are cur- 
rently charged, all over Christendom, with the commis- 
sion of most incredible and abominable crimes, to which 
the violations of all the vows of their order and all the 
edicts of the decalogue itself are as innocence.” 

“ But these charges are not sooth, my son — they can- 
not be sooth ! ” exclaimed Clement. 

“ How should / know, your Holiness?” was the cool 
answer. “Am I a Templar?” 

“It had reached me,” said Clement, “ that the Temp- 
lars were accused off indolence, luxury, pride and other 
like vices. Indeed, I do remember me that, so long ago 
as the year 1208, the great Innocent III., the most am- 
bitious of Pontiffs and warmest of friends of the Temple, 
severely censured the order, in an epistle to its Grand 
Master, charging them with bearing the cross ostenta- 
tiously on the breast but not in the heart. But never 
hath reached me report of the crimes of the which you 
speak.” 

“Hath it ever reached your Holiness,” asked the King 
with intense bitterness,” that these ‘Poor Fellow-soldiers 
of Jesus Christ and the temple of Solomon,’ as they 
meekly style themselves, once secretly pledged their 
swords to Pope Boniface Eighth, in event he should deem 
it discreet to take the field against the King of France, 
although openly they professed themselves that mon- 
arch’s friends? ” 

“ My son — my son — what would you ? ” asked Clement 
in dismay. 


144 THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 

Ho knew not Low shortly he might be forced to call 
upon that same powerful arm for protection against that 
samo powerful foe, and he now began to suspect a dread- 
ful design on part of the King. 

“ Hath it reached your Holiness,” continued Philip in 
the same sarcastic tone, “that some of tbe most eminent 
of these friar-knights have spurned our authority, in- 
sulted our person, ridiculed our power, defied our ven- 
geance, tampered with our enemies as well as our rebel- 
lious subjects, and, finally, have even conspired against 
our crown ? ” 

“ My son — my son — what would you ? ” again ex- 
claimed the Sovereign Pontiff* in extreme agitation. 

“The accomplishment of the Sixth Article of the 
Covenant of St. Jean d’Angely [ ” 

“ And that? ” gasped Clement, raising himself in bed, 
and gazing with open lips, and dilated eyes, and face as 
livid as death, upon his tormentor. 

“ And that,” rejoined the King, in a low whisper of 
bitter hate, “is the utter destruction of the Order of the 
Templar Knights ! ” 

Clement uttered a faint cry, and, closing his eyes, fell 
back upon his pillow. 

“The Holy Father takes it hard !” said Philip to him- 
self, gazing with a grim smile upon the unhappy Pontiff. 
“ No wonder! Tlie Templars, he well knows, are his only 
protection in his need, as truly as they were of Boniface. 
Has he actually fainted ? That would be strange ! No,” 
he added, after a pause. “He revives! He speaks! 
Now l” 


THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 145 

“My son,” feebly murmured the Pontiff. 

“Holy Father,” meekly returned Philip. 

“ This cannot be! ” sighed Clement. 

“ The Abbey of St. Jean d’Angely — the parchment — 
the oath on the reliques and the cross!” quietly rejoined 
the King. “This must be! ” 

“But, upon what charge shall this great thing be 
done? ” asked the distressed Pontiff. 

“On the charge of heresy to the Church,” was the 
answer. “ Heresy — of course, heresy.” 

“ Holy Mother! ” ejaculated Clement. 

Philip sneered. 

“ But how shall it be proved, my son? ” continued the 
Pontiff. 

“ Has my pious grandsire, Saint Louis, of blessed 
memory, with his pious consort, Blanche of Castile, 
planted a branch of the Holy Office in the capital of 
France for naught?” asked the King, with a meaning 
smile. 

“ But this is a perilous scheme, my son. Think of 
the vast — the incalculable power of this ancient and 
mighty order ! ” 

“ For that very reason it must be crushed !” 

“ But we must proceed slowly, and surely, and secretly, 
my son; or, like Samson of old, we shall pull down 
this ponderous Temple of the Philistines on our own 
heads.” 

“ Most true, Holy Father.” 

“We must first patiently and diligently elicit and 
investigate the charges against this ancient and power- 


146 THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 

ful brotherhood, to the end that we may have, at least, 
a semblance of justice in their destruction.” 

“ Most true, Holy Father.” 

Clement now breathed more freely. Could be but 
gain time, be bad little apprehension of tbe ultimate 
result. 

Philip smiled. He divined what passed in the mind 
of the Pope. 

“ What, then, shall be the first step in this great 
enterprise, my son ? ” 

“ Your Holiness, as tbe spiritual bead of tbe Templars, 
will order Jacques de Molai, Grand Master of that order, 
who is now at Cyprus, at onc6 to embark for France, 
and then from Avignon repair to Paris.” 

“ But, upon what pretense ? ” asked Clement. 

“In order that be may consult with tbe Sovereign 
Pontiff, and the sovereign of France, as touching tbe 
propriety of the new crusade, which your Holiness just 
suggested in regard of the conquest of Rhodes.” 

“Aye, my son, that will do,” said the Pope quickly. 

“Bid him come speedily, with tbe utmost secrecy, and 
with a small retinue of knights, and to bring with him 
all tbe treasure be can collect, with tbe view to arm and 
equip a large army for tbe Holy War now contem- 
plated,” continued Philip. 

“It shall be done, my son — it shall be instantly 
done ! ” eagerly cried Clement, who now felt quite sure 
that be could contrive to avert the doom of tbe devoted 
order, on whose safety bis own so vitally bung. 

“Many thanks, Holy Father,” meekly replied Philip, 


THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 147 


rising. u And, now, I crave to take my leave. It 
behooves me to wait upon the Countess of Perigord, 
daughter of the Count of Foix, * and see with mine own 
eyes, ere I depart for Paris, whether the lady is, indeed, 
as transcend autly lovely as universal fame asserts. Your 
Holiness will pardon reference to such vanities. Besides, 
the agitation of the past hour must have proved very 
exhausting to an invalid. Your blessing, Holy Father ! ” 
added Philip meekly. 

“ You have it, son ! ” was the equally meek reply. 

Philip left the chamber. 

“ Does he think to elude me, the simpleton ! ” mut- 
tered the King, as the door closed behind him. “ Ah, 
Bertrand de Goth ! — Bertrand de Goth ! Once place 
the Grand Master of this hated order f within the walls 
of Paris, and ” 

Concluding the sentence with a low and bitter laugh, 
more significant than even the menace, he passed on. 

Clement Fifth listened to the retreating footsteps 
of the King along the corridor. The instant their last 
echoes ceased, he threw himself from his couch, and, 
drawing around him an ermined mantle, began rapidly 


*ViIlani ascribes the removal of the Papal See from Rome to Avignon to 
Clement’s attachment to this lady. It remained at Avignon 70 years. 

f The causes of Philip’s hostility to the Temple were various. The Tem- 
plars had ever been staunch partisans of Papal power, which Philip had ever 
striven to diminish ; and, in his conflict with Boniface VIII, Ihey had openly 
sided against him aim with their spiritual supreme. They had loudly 
denounced the Royal and repeated debasement ol coin of the realm, by which 
their order had greatly suffered. They were urgent for the repayment, of 
vast sums at different periods loaned the King, which he was utterly unable 
to repay. Their wrath and power were great : so were their arrogance and 
pride; ‘and equally so was their unpopularity with the masses. They oos- 
sessed the richest estates in France and were connected with the noblest 
families, and now, having returned finally from the East, they presented a 
most imposing bulwark to the power of the Crown, which every day was 
becoming more despotic. 


148 THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 

pacing the apartment. The catting irony of Philip’s 
last words had pierced him to the quick. 

“By Heaven! I think that man mocks me!” he 
exclaimed, livid with rage. “ And is it for this I am 
Sovereign Pontiff* of the Church of Pome? Benedict 
Gaetan!” he faintly ejaculated, raising his trembling 
hands and his eyes to Heaven — “Benedict Gaetan! my 
early and my only friend! — pardon the frailty which 
hath made me the unnatural associate of thy deadliest 
foe, as well as mine. Thy unavenged spirit hovers over 
me now; and here, from this hour, do I devote all my 
powers of mind, body, or station to visit, under thy 
guidance, thy wrongs and my own upon Philip of 
France! ” 


THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS, 


149 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS. 

ARTS, in the early part of the Fourteenth Centurj', 



I had four great thoroughfares, on which as a 
frame work, all the lesser streets and lanes at that time 
were woven, and since that time have been woven. 

These four grand avenues crossed each other at right 
angles, and extended east and west, north and south, 
from wall to wall. 

From north to south, — from the gate of St. Martin 
to the gate of St. Jacques, straight through the three 
districts of Ville, Cite , and University ran one of these 
thoroughfares, and parallel to this, and from the gate 
of St. Denis to the gate of St. Michael, ran another. 
There were, however, but two bridges, massive struc- 
tures of stone, — instead of four across the two arms of 
the Seine, — the Petit Pont and the Pont au Change. 

From east to west, the two thoroughfares ran from 
the gate of St. Antoine to the gate of St. Ilonore, in the 
Ville , and from the gate of St. Victor to the gate of St. 
Germain, in the Universite. In the Cite, there was not 
then, nor is there now, nor ever has been, so far as may 
be inferred from maps and charts, any one grand artery 
extending from one end of the island to the other — from 
east to west. 

Early on the morning of April 5th ; 1307, the good 


150 


THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS. 


citizens of Paris who dwelt near the gate of St. Jacques, 
were roused from their slumbers by the most melodious 
and thrilling strains of trumpet-music they had ever 
heard. 

It was a sweet morning, — calm, cool, clear, and the 
whole eastern horizon beyond the wood of Vincennes, 
and the seven rectangular towers of its massive keep, 
was suffused with those mellow and iris tints which 
anticipate the dawn. 

The wild and unearthly music ceased. It was a sum- 
mons to the warder of the gate of St. Jacques, and was 
instantly obeyed. The drawbridge descended, — the 
portcullis rose and then, within the walls of Paris 
entered a calvacade, such as till that morning it had 
never witnessed before, and such as since that morning 
it has never witnessed again. 

First., in that strange procession, came a man of large 
frame, and tall and erect stature, upon a war-horse of 
similar dimensions and form. The horse was black as 
night, and his breast, and front and flanks were- pro- 
tected by plates of steel. As for the rider, his armor 
was chain-mail, from top to toe, while a round steel cap 
covered his head, and a neck gua<rd, also of chain called 
the camail , fell over his shoulders. Ills arms were a 
broad-bladed and heavy sword, called a falchion, hang- 
ing on his left thigh, and a broad dagger, called the 
ancelace, tapering to a point exceedingly minute, upon 
his right breast. At the bow of his war- saddle swung 
a ponderous mace-at-arms on one side, balanced by a 
battle-axe, equally ponderous, on the other. Upon his 


THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS. 


151 


left arm was a small triangular shield, on his heels were 
spurs of gold, and on his hands gauntlets of chain-mail, 
reaching to the elbow, and meeting the hauler which 
protected the neck and breast. Over the mail and 
descending as low as the knee, was a crimson surcoat, 
like a blouse of the present day. Over this from the 
right shoulder, crossing the breast to the left thigh, was 
seen a broad leathern belt, which, with another around 
the waist, assisted by a third, sustained the ponderous 
falchion. Over the whole figure, thus armed and 
accoutred, hung a full and heavy mantle, or cloak, of 
Burrel cloth, white as snow, fastened by a clasp closely 
around the neck, clinging with equal closeness to the 
shoulders, and descending in voluminous folds to the 
heels. On the white ground of the mantle, and upon 
the left shoulder, was cut a broad cross with crimson 
velvet. This device was the only one which anywhere 
appeared, and its singularity was the more remarkable 
from the fact, that, at that era, the knight wore his 
armorial bearings fully emblazoned on pennon and 
shield, surcoat and crest, and even on the frontlet, breast- 
plate and housings of his steed. Tn his right hand he 
bore a long rod of ebony, called abacus , — a baton of 
office, surmounted by an octangular plate of metal, on 
which was graven the same device. 

The man, whose armor, arms, costume and device are 
thus delineated, was, apparently, some sixty } T ears of 
age. His form and features were large, — his complexion 
very dark, — his eye black and piercing, — his beard, 
which swept his breast, was white as Snow, while a 


152 


THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS. 


tliick moustache rested on liis upper lip. The expres- 
sion of his countenauce was severe, solemn, command- 
ing, hold, — indicating a will of iron power and of iron 
tenacity. The whole man, indeed, form, face, and 
aspect, seemed of iron, — dark, unbending, indomitable, 
terrible; and the effect of those deep-set and piercing 
eyes, which gleamed beneath his steel cap and con- 
trasted with his snowy hair and beard, was that of a 
lamp blazing in a sepulchre. At the same time, a 
broad scar, spanning his left cheek, added to the stern- 
ness of his aspect. 

This man was Jacques de Molai, Grand Master of the 
Order of Templar Knights. 

Behind this majestic and imperial form followed an 
array of sixty men, each so identically the same in arms 
and armor, steed and costume with his leader, that, sav- 
ing the peculiarities of face and form, and the mystic 
abacus of rank, which was supplied by the spear, and 
the awe and respect, with which he seemed regarded, it 
would have been difficult, if not impossible, to have dis- 
tinguished one man from another. All the horses were 
black, and all had the same accoutrement; all the riders 
were men of stately stature and adamantine frame; all 
bore the self-same arms and armor, as their great 
leader ; on the head of each gleamed the round steel cap, 
without crest or plume, and Irom the shoulders of each 
depended the full and flowing mantle of white, with its 
crimson device. But all were not identical in ase or 
aspect. Some were old, — the veterans of an hundred 
battles beneath a* blazing sun, — upon the sands of a 


THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS. 


153 


for3 : gn soil — against a merciless foe; but the lapse of 
years, and the perils and hardships endured, seemed only 
to have indurated — petrified their hardy frames; while 
their swarthy faces covered all over with scars, and their 
flaming eyes, offered a marked contrast to their snowy 
beards and mantles. And some were comparatively 
young, — some in the very prime of life; and their 
stately and sj'mmetrical forms, — their black and luxu- 
riant beards — their fierce and brilliant eyes, and their 
handsome faces, harmonized well with the striking cos- 
tume of themselves and their steeds. 

Such was the little band of Templar Knights, only 
sixty in number, which, on the morning of April 5th, 
1307, entered the southeastern gate of Paris. 

Obedient to the mission of the Sovereign Pontiff, 
Clement Fifth, their spiritual supreme, they had, at once, 
in unquestioning obedience to the will of their Grand 
Master, embarked from Cyprus, — landed at Marseilles, 

- — repaired to the Holy Father at Avignon, and thence, 
at his order, marched to Paris. They were but sixty 
men, but they were sixty Templars ; and that number 
sixty times told would have dared not offer themselves 
their match in open field ! 

Having crossed the drawbridge and entered the city, 
the troop immediately assumed its prior order of march. 
That order was an oblong, hollow square, in the centre 
of which moved a train of twelve beasts of burthen, 
heavily laden, and conducted by a body of serving 
brothers of the order, some two hundred in number, 
garbed in black. Here, also, rode the trumpeters of the 


154 


THE TEMPLATES IN PARIS. 


band; and from tlie centre rose the vast Beauseant — the 
banner of tlie Temple. In front of this impressive cav- 
alcade, at a distance of several yards, advanced Jacques 
de Molai, as slowly as his trained steed could step, — his 
keen eye fixed sternly forward, regardless of all objects 
on his way, on the right or on the left, and his baton of 
rank grasped firmly and perpendicularly in his hand. 
In the self-same manner advanced each Templar, grasp- 
ing his lance. 

It was a dark, and solemn, and terrible baud ! It was 
a thunder-cloud, skirted with silver and flashing with 
steel! It was a slumbering tornado, which had o\\W to 
be roused to bless or to ban! It was a troop of iron men 
on iron steeds, — dark spectres of the fancy, — until, roused 
by one magic word from the bronze lips of the majestic 
shape that led them, instantly each man became a giant 
of power and of might ! It was a band of those wonderful 
men, who, for two hundred years, were the dread and 
the admiration of the whole world. With their terrible 
name, like that of Richard, the Saracen mother had 
hushed her unquiet babe to its slumber, and the Saracen 
rider had quelled his refractory barb ; while, throughout 
all Europe, its boast and its dismay were alike those 
soldier- monks. 

These men were not as other men. They lived not as 
other men. They had not, they seemed not to have like 
passions with other men. Clouds and darkness were 
around them. Human steel seemed to harm them not, 
• — human power seemed idle against them! To them, 
the will of one man, old, perchance, and infirm, was 


THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS. 


155 


tlie will of God ; and, in obedience to tliat will, there 
was no doom they would not brave, — no torture they 
would not endure ! The loftiest rank, the most resist- 
less power, the most countless wealth was theirs; yet, in 
the stern severity of their order, they seemed to scorn it 
all. One old man’s will seemed more to them than the 
will of all other men together — than even the will ofGod 
himself! — more than all the blandishments of woman — 
more than all the seductions of* passion — more than all 
the splendors of wealth, — more than all the untold glories 
of ambitious conception ! On the battle-field they were 
fiends; before the altar saints, -^in the conclave slaves 
to one man’s will! To all men save one they were stern, 
scornful, despotic. To him, they were meek, yielding, — 
obedient beyond all conception and all credence. 

Such was a band of these wonderful men, now led by 
their Grand Master within the walls of Paris; and their 
blind obedience to that one old man,- — their unity of 
purpose, — their concentration of will, was, perhaps,* the 
chief element of tlnf.r strength. 

Passing through the gate of St. Jacques, as has been 
said, and entering the head of the street of the same 
name, the close cohort of spears had no sooner resumed 
its form of march, than, at an imperceptible signal from 
the mystic abacus of their leader, all the trumpets of 
the band at once burst forth into an air so wild, so shrill, 
so sweet, and yet so solemn, that the whole University 
was instantly awake, and its doors, and windows, and 
streets were thronged with curious gazers. But not a 
man of that formidable band looked to the right nor the 
10 


156 


THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS. 


left. On went their leader midway down the street of 
St. Jacques, through the yawning arch of the Petit 
Chatelet, and the Petit Pont, and right on followed his 
knights. 

By the time that the cavalcade had crossed the bridge, 
and had again resumed its order, and was advancing 
down the northern quay of the Cite , having passed the 
twin giants of Notre Dame unnoticed, on their right, and 
the grim old Palace of Justice, then in the course of re- 
construction, on their left, all Paris had gathered to wit- 
ness the scene ; and as the Pont au Change was crossed, and 
the Grand Chatelet passed, and the priestly band emerged^ 
from its gloomy, gateway on the street of St. Denis, so 
slow was the movement, that the whole quay of the 
Louvre was black with swarming masses. 

But, all unmindful, the dark battalion of Avarriov- 
monks moved solemnly on, and the sweet notes of the 
oriental march thrilled upon the air; and, steadily and 
sternly on, moved the tall form of Jacques de Molai ; 
and still his eye turned not to the right hand, nor to the 
left: — not to the right hand, Avhere frowned the black 
towers of that sombre pile, whose dungeon-walls were, 
•ere long, to echo his unavailing groans; — -not to the left 
hand, Avhere, on the green islet of the Passeur aux 
Y aches, smiled those royal gardens, which, ere many 
years had fled, were to witness his unspeakable torture! 

Steadily and sternly that iron band moved on to its own 
unearthly music— and alas! to its oavii dreadful doom! 
Its own sweet trumpet-music Avas its own funeral march ! 
Silently — mysteriously — unushered — unknown — unan- 


THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS. 


157 


nounced— unexpected — -unproclai med — wi tliout pageant 
or pomp — without ceremony — or show or observance, — - 
without the pealing of bells or the welcoming shouts of 
the populace, — secretly, at the dawn of day, had that 
dark band entered the capital, and advanced into its very 
heart, and there had itself heralded its presence, with its 
own wild music, before its coming had been suspected! 

All this struck strangely on the minds of men, and, 
with a superstitious stillness, and pale faces, and mute 
lips, the} 7 gazed on these world-renowned priest-soldiers 
— “these men,” in the language of St. Bernard, “with 
aspect steady and austere, with visage embrowned by the 
sun, attired in steel and covered with dust,” — who had 
suddenly appeared, from a foreign soil, and like spectre 
warriors on spectre steeds moved silently and sternly on! 

As the cavalcade marched up the street of St. Denis, 
the mass of spectators, constantly augmenting, had 
become countless. But, unlike popular throngs upon 
other occasions, they pressed not on the troop, and no 
shout or sound went up from the moving mass. At a 
distance, respectfully and silently, the multitudes fol- 
lowed on ; and, when the band had gone out of the gate 
of St. Denis, and turned off to the right in the direction 
of the Palace of the Temple, the mass of people, also, 
went and poured itself over the broad plains beyond. 

Arrived at the embattled walls of the gloomy pile, 
the drawbridge fell — the portcullis rose, — the ponderous 
gates rolled back, as if by magic, upon their hinges: 
the glittering spear-points and flowing mantles disap- 
peared beneath the deep barbican of the Temple. 


158 


THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS. 


And, then, tlie gates again closed, as they had opened, 
and the spectral band was gone; and, like a vision, 
when it hath departed, so seemed to those awe-struck 
beholders the strange apparition of that dark array 
and its strange disappearance. 

And, silently and thoughtfully, the citizens of Paris 
went back to their homes. But the scenes of that memo- 
rable morning passed not lightly from their minds. Nay, 
tenfold more deeply now than ever were they impressed 
with awe and dread of that terrible order, — an awe and 
dread, from which, years afterwards, emanated most 
bitter fruits. 

But there was one man, who, from the tall tower of 
the Louvre, gazed more anxiously and more earnestly on 
this mystic procession than all others beside; and into 
whose mind more deeply than into the mind of any other 
beholder sank its impression. 

That man was Philip Fourth of France; and, years 
afterwards, bitter, indeed, were the fruits, which that 
impression conduced to germinate and to bring forth ! 


THE WARRIOR-MONKS. 


159 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE WARRIOR-MONKS. 


N the evening of the fifteenth day of July, 1099, 



Count Godfrey of Bouillon planted the standard 
of the First Crusade on the walls of the Holy City, after 
a Moslem bondage of 460 years. 

Twenty years passed away. A soldier of the cross 
still sat upon the throne of Jerusalem, and thousands of 
way-worn and penniless pilgrims dragged themselves 
over the burning sands of Palestine, to look upon the 
holy sepulchre of the Lord and to die. Multitudes 
perished on the route of Famine, disease and destitution; 
and their bleaching skeletons, for many a year, whitened 
the desert; but still greater multitudes perished by the 
scimitar of the Saracen, who thus alone could wreak an 
atrocious vengeance on an execrated foe. 

To protect these pious palmers from the atrocities of 
the Paynim, and to furnish an appropriate escort to a 
perpetual pilgrimage, nine of the noblest and most valiant 
knights of the Count of Bouillon, in the year 1117, 
united themselves by a vow to that end; and, “In honor 
of the sweet Mother of God*,” they associated the 
duties of a monk with those of a knight in the obliga- 
tions they assumed. 

Of these nine noble knights, the names of but two 


* La doce Mere de Dieu. 


160 


THE WARRIOR -MONKS. 


have come down to us; they are Geoffrey Adelman of 
St. Omer and Hugh des Payens, the first Grand Master. 

In 1118, Baldwin Second, King of Jerusalem, vouch- 
safed the new order a retreat within the Holy Temple, 
and gave to them the name of Templar Knights. But 
they called themselves “ Poor Fellow-soldiers of Christ 
and the Temple of Solomon.” The valiant Hugh des 
Payens was chosen their leader, hearing the title, “ Master 
of the Temple;” and, in 1120, Fulk, Count of Anjou, 
one of the most renowned warriors of the age, who had 
plunged into the crusades that he might drown his 
anguish for the loss of a beloved wife, was among the 
earliest companions of the order. 

In 1128, by command of Pope Ilonorius Second, the 
famous St. Bernard of Clairvaux drew up a system of 
monastic discipline for the governance of the new bro- 
therhood, which was subsequently confirmed by the 
Council of Troyes. 

The bases of this Holy Rule were the canonical obli- 
gations of chastity, poverty and obedience. Each 
Templar was enjoined to hear the Holy Office through- 
out, every day, or, to repeat thirteen Pater Nosters for 
Matins and nine for Vespers : also, to obstain from milk, 
meat and eggs on Friday, and from flesh-meats four days 
of each week; while water was prescribed as tlieir only 
drink. They were, also, forbidden to wear a crest upon 
their helms, or a blazon on their arms or armor: — they 
were forbidden to hunt with hawk or hound, — to sliave 
the beard on the chin, — to read works of poetry or 
romance, — to possess more than three' horses, or to be 


TIIE WARRIOR-MONKS. 


161 


attended by more than one Esquire ; while it was en- 
joined on them to crush heresy, — to protect pilgrims, — 
to defend the cross, and to combat evermore for the 
glory of the Lord Supreme. 

By the primitive Templars these rigid injunctions are 
said to have been observed with most punctilious and 
painful exactitude, — especially that embodied in the 46th 
Capital entitled — -“De osculis fugiendis So scrupu- 
lously, indeed, was it observed, that many of the warrior- 
monks shunned the kiss of their own mothers even; 
while some were so impressed with the capital entitled — ■ 
“ De oblectione Carnis ,” that they deemed it an unpar- 
donable tempting of Providence to look a fair woman 
'in the face ! Indeed, it is related of “ the gentle Saint of 
Glairvaux,” himself, who was the author of these ordi- 
nances, that, on one occasion, chancing to fix his eyes on 
a woman, he instantly took' to his heels and plunged up 
to his neck in ice-cold water ! This penance, it may be- 
added, well-nigh cost the Avorthy saint his life! 

In the year 1162, Pope Alexander III. issued the cele- 
brated Bull Omne Datum Optimum , conferring privileges 
and powers which the Temple had long desired, and 
which completed the union of priest and warrior, — a 
union omnipotent in a superstitious and warlike age. 
The order Avas, also, exempt from the terrible effects of 
Interdict; and thousands sought affiliation as serving 
brothers and sisters, and also as Donates and Oblate s, that 
they might occasionally hear mass and receive the sacra- 
ment, and, should they die, the rites of Christian sepul- 
ture, Avhilc the formidable interdict of Pope or Prelate 


162 


THE WARRIOR-MONKS. 


might overshadow the land. Pope Innocent III. declared 
himself an affiliated brother of the order; and among 
the Oblales were priests and princes, and among the 
sisterhood some of the purest and brightest names of 
the age.* 

The Master of the Temple had rather the power of a 
Venitian Doge, or a Spartan Prince, than a Benedictine 
Prior. He was allowed four horses and an Esquire of 
noble birth. He had, also, a chaplain and two secre- 
taries, — one to manage his Latin correspondence and the 
other his Saracenic. He had, also, a farrier, a cook, two 
footmen, a Turcopole, or guard, and a Turcoman, or 
guide, —“the two last, as their names intimate, being 
Turks. The Statutes declare the Master to be in the 
place of God, and that his commands are to be obeyed 
like those of God. Yet the Master was not absolute 
in his rule, but was governed by the majority of the 
Chapter. General Chapters always met at Jerusalem, 
but were very rarely convened. 

The canonical costume prescribed to the Templars by 
the Rule of St. Bernard was a long white mantle, sym- 
bolic of the purity of their life, which was enjoined to 
be worn over their knightly harness. Twenty years 
afterwards a red cross, the symbol of that martyrdom 
to which the knights were constantly exposed, was 
added to the attire by Pope Eugene Third, and was 
worn, either emblazoned on the left breast, or cut in red 
cloth on the left shoulder of the mantle. The great 
standard prescribed to the order was composed oflinen, 


* “Secret Societies of Middle Ages .' 1 


THE WATJRIOF.-MOXKS, 


163 


— partly white and partly black in lme, bearing on its 
centre the cross, and called Beauseant , which word was, 
also, their war-cry. On the eve of battle, the marshal 
unfurled the Beauseant in the name of God, and nomi- 
nated ten Templars -to guard it, — one of whom bore a 
second banner furled, which ho was to display if the first 
went down. On pain of expulsion, a Templar could 
never quit the field so long as the banner of his order 
waved. And, when the red cross fell, he was to rally to 
the white ; and, when that was gone, he was to join any 
Christian banner yet to bo seen on the field; and, when 
all had disappeared, he might then slowly retreat, — if so 
ordered by his superior. 

The 20th Capital of the Holy Rule, prescribing the 
banner, assigns the significance of its colors and appella- 
tion to be this: — “Because the poor companions shall 
be fair and favorable to Christ’s friends, and black and 
terrible to his foes.” It bore as a device the cross of the 
order, with the inscription — “Non nobis , Domine , non 
nobis, sed tuo nomine da gloriam It was, also, enjoined 
that wheresoever the Templars should go a portable 
chapel should accompany them, and that their religious 
worship should, in no event be pretermitted. So strictly 
was this ordinance observed, that it is related of them 
that every night, during all the crusades, when they 
repaired to their camps, at a stated moment, when the 
sun went down, the heralds thrice shouted — “Save the 
Holy Sepulchre! ” — and instantly each mailed form sank 
down on the spot where it had stood, — even though 
the soil were polluted with human gore, and though it 


164 


THE WARRIOR-MONKS. 


was yet warm and reeking on their hands, and though 
the earth was burthened with human carcasses them- 
selves had slain, and meekly, yet fervently, invoked on 
their enterprise the smile of Heaven! 

The peculiar tie which wedded the Templar so 
strongly to his order is not now, nor has it ever been, 
completely ascertained. Of this much, however, there 
seems little reason to doubt, — that no one but a knight 
according to the laws of chivalrv could become a can- 
didate for membership; and that the initiation vow 
enjoined an obligation to obey, during life, the Grand 
Master of the order, — to defend the holy city of Jerusa- 
lem, — to observe inviolate chastity of person, — to yield 
sirict and cheerful compliance with all usages of the 
order, — never to demit from the institution save with 
the consent of the Grand Master and a full chapter of 
knights, and never, under any provocation, or possibility 
of circumstance, to injure a Templar, or to suffer him to 
be injured while there was power to prevent. The can- 
didate seems, also, to have sworn to devote his discourse, 
his arms, his faculties and his life to the defence of the 
Church and the order; and, at all times, when com- 
manded by his superior, to cross seas to combat infidels ; 
and, should he singly be attacked by not more than 
three infidel foes, at one time, never to turn his back, but 
to fight on to the death. In return for these obligations, 
the candidate was assured of “ bread and water all his life, 
the poor clothing of the order, and labor and toil enow ; 
and, should he be captured in battle with the infidel, 
his ransom was limited to his Gapuce and his girdle. 


THE WARRIOR-MONKS. 


165 


Such, without doubt, were a few of the obligations 
assumed by the Templar Knights as a military order ; 
and it is equally undoubted that there existed other 
bonds of unity more solemn and more irrelragible than 
even these. That the Templars possessed the mysteries, 
performed the ceremonies, and inculcated the duties of 
that high Masonic order of the present day which bears 
their name is not certainly known, although it is more 
than probable. The best writers on Masonry both con- 
cede and claim the fact.* 

But be this as it may, never did a community increase 
more rapidly in power, in numbers and in celebrity, 
than did that of the chevaliers of the Temple, during the 
first century of its existence. In the enthusiastic lan- 
guage of a chronicler of the times, — “All Christendom 
resounded with the chivalric deeds of the Soldiers of the 
Cross. Princes supplicated to be buried in the habit and 
harness of these warrior-monks, and kings were proud 
to be enrolled under their triumphant standard.” 

Distinction awaited the Templar everywhere, and all 
were eager to do him reverence. Godfrey of St. Omer 
presented the order with all his possessions, and many 
Flemish gentlemen imitated his example. Henry First 
of England made the order many splendid presents, and 
the Emperor Lothaire, in 1130, bestowed upon it a lame 

* Lawrie says:— “Wo know tint the Knight Templars not only possessed 
the mysteries, but performed the ceremonies, and inculcated tlie duties, of 
Free Masons.” The dissolution of the order he attributes, in part, to tlie dis- 
covery of this fact, and traces the reception of the Masonic mysteries to the 
Syriac fraternity of the Druses, which, at the era of the Crusades, and long 
alter, held their seat on Mount Libanus, and there initiated the early Tem- 
plars while in Palestine. We also learn that, in the reign of Henry Second 
of England, the Masonic lodges in that realm were under superintendancc of 
the O rand Chapter of Templar Knights; and that, in the year 1155, it employed 
them in the erection of the Temple, in Fleet Street, London. 


166 


THE WARRIOR- MONKS. 


part of liis patrimony of Supplinburg. Raymond Ber- 
enger, the aged Count of Provence, entered the Temple 
House of Barcelona ; and, resigning liis government, 
sent the richest proceeds of his estates to his brethren in 
the Holy Land. Alphonse of Aragon and Navarre, the 
hero of thirty battles against the Moors, bequeathed to the 
order his throne, and Lion-hearted Richard of England, 
when about returning to Europe from the East, assumed 
the Templar-garb for safety from his foes, among whom, 
it is said, were numbered Templar Knights themselves ; 
while his brother John was ever a warm patron of the 
order, and, like other monarclis of the age, committed all 
his treasures to the safe keeping of the Temple House 
in London,— a trust never known in any instance to have 
been betrayed. 

From the period of the commencement of the Second 
Crusade to the close cf the Ninth, — a space of more 
than one hundred 3 -cars, — the career of the Knights 
Templar has no rival for brilliancy in the annals of 
Europe. During all that terrible conflict between the 
crescent and the cross, this order was ever in the van of 
the fight. Beneath the walls of Ascalon and Tyre, — of 
Ptolemais and Jerusalem ; on the plains of Tiberias; on 
the barren sea-coast of Gaza upon that fatal eve of St. 
Luke, when, out of thousands of Templars engaged, but 
thirty survived; — on the sacred banks of the Jordan 
when its stream ran blood, and a captive Grand Master 
chose death rather than ransom ; at Caesarea, and Jaffa 
and Damietta, and Tripoli ; before the castle of Eich- 
liorn where a Grand Prior with 1700 men lay slain when 


THE WARRIOR-MONKS. 


167 


night closed the conflict; at the brook Ivishon, where 
140 knights encountered 7,000 Moslems, and refusing 
all quarter were cut off* to a man, — the Marshal of the 
Temple, the heroic De Mailly, falling last; at the fatal 
fight of Hittin, where 30,000 Christians fell, and the 
Latin power in the East was broken forever, and where, 
to a man, the Templar captives refused their lives to 
Saladin at the price of their faith, and only Gerard de 
Ridefort, their Master, was spared; at the storming of 
Massoura, where but three Templars survived from a 
host; at the Tower of Sapliad, where thousands were 
massacred rather than renounce their faith; and, finally, 
in the fortilace of Acre, when three hundred knights — 
a whole Chapter! with their Master at their head — were 
slaughtered in a hopeless defence of female virtue 
against Paynim treachery and lust, — everywhere these 
noble and- heroic men were champions of chivalry and 
the crocs. 

At length' the Christian war-cry ceased to be heard 
on the shores of Palestine. The conflict of two cen- 
turies terminated in blood, and a mournful silence 
reigned along that coast, which, for years, had resounded 
with the clash of arms.* 

The few surviving Templars retired, at first, to 
Limisso, in the Island of Cyprus, but shortly after 
returned to Europe, and sought an asylum in the rich 
and numerous Commanderies, Priories, or Preceptories 
of the order, which existed in every kingdom on the 
continent, as well as in England, Ireland and Scotland. 


* Fuller. 


168 


THE WARRIOR-MONICS. 

111 all Europe, indeed, was the order established, and 
everywhere had it “churches, chapels, tithes, farms, 
villages, mills, rights of pasturage, of fishing, of venery, 
and of wood; and, in many places, the right, also, of 
holding and of receiving tolls at annual fairs. The 
number of their preceptories was, at the least, 9,000, and 
their annual income about six millions of pounds ster- 
ling! In the early part of the Thirteenth Century, not- 
withstanding their losses in the East from the conquests 
of Saladin, their estates in Western Europe were some 
seven or eight thousand in number. Lords of immense 
estates and countless revenues, — descendants of the 
noblest houses in Christendom, — uniting the most hon- 
ored of secular and ecclesiastical characters, — viewed as 
the chosen champions of Christ and the flower of 
knighthood, — what wonder that, in the darkest centuries 
of an age of darkness, they fell into luxury and pride, 
and became the object of jealousy to both laity and 
priesthood, and of cupidity and dread to an avaricious 
and perfidious monarch. Instances of that pride of 
power exhibited by the Templars are not few. When 
Henry III. of England, in 1252, threatened to recall the 
privileges so profusely and rashly given the order, the 
Grand Prior made the memorable reply, — -“Do justice, 
oh, King, and thou wilt reign ! Infringe it and thou 
art no more a King!” 

P>y the union with the order of such multitudes of 
nobles and princes, whose vast possessions passed, by 
their death on the battle-field, or elsewhere, into the 
common fund, the wealth of these preceptories had 


THE WARRIOR-MONKS. 


169 


become, in the long lapse of two hundred years, incredi- 
ble and almost incalculable. And, with the possession 
of these untold riches, no wonder that luxury and corrup- 
tion also crept in; and that the battle-scarred heroes, who, 
on the plains of Palestine, had, with religious severity, 
remembered every vow, should, for a season, amid the 
opulence and security of peace and pleasure, have for- 
gotten them all ; — all vows save one, — obedience ; — 
obedience to the mandate of their Master, wherever 
heard, however received, and whatsoever its import! 
“They go and come,” wrote the Abbot of Clairvaux, 
“ at a sign from their Master. There is with them no 
respect of persons. The best, not the noblest, are most 
highly regarded. They are mostly to be seen with dis- 
ordered hair and covered with dust, brown from their 
corselets and the heat of the sun. They go to war ai med 
within with faith, and without with iron, but never 
adorned with gold, wishing rather to excite fear than 
desire for booty. Hence, one of them has often put a 
thousand, and two of them ten thousand, to flight. 
Tliev are gentler than lambs and grimmer than lions ; 
they have the mildness of monks and the valour of the 
knight. It is the Lord’s doing, and it is wonderful in 
our eyes ! ” 

“They are the first to advance,” writes the Cardinal 
of Yitry, in the early part of the 13th Century, “and the 
last to retreat. They ask not how many is the foe, but 
tohere is he. Lions in war, — lambs at home: rugged 
warriors on the field, — monks and eremites in the 
church.” 


170 


TIIE WARRIOR-MONKS. 


u To narrate the exploits of the Temple,” says a 
modern, writer, “ would be to chronicle tlie crusades; for 
never was there a conflict with the Infidel in which the 
chivalry of that order bore not a conspicuous part. 
Their war-cry ever rose in the thickest of the fray, and 
never did Beauseant waver or retreat.”* Never, too, 
did the Templar abjure his faith, whatever might be the 
irregularities of his life; and Robert of St. Albans is the 
only name on record of apostacv from the order, or of 
alliance with the infidel foe. 

It was in 1298, — four years after the final retreat from 
the shores of Asia, — that Jacques de Molai, a member 
of a noble family of Burgundy, a native of Besan^on in 
the Francke Comte, and who, for more than thirty years 
a Templar, had been among the most renowned of the 
heroes of the order in Palestine, was unanimously 
chosen chief, while still absent from Cj^prus on a hostile 
shore; and it was nearly ten yenrs after this event that, 
in unquestioning obedience to the mandate of his Spirit- 
ual Supreme, he entered Paris.f It was, probably, his 
purpose to make the capital of France the future seat 
of the order; for, agreeably to the suggestion of the 
Pontiff, he not only bore thither vast sums of money 
in his train, amounting to 150,000 Florins in gold, and a 
quantity of silver coin perfectly countless, — certainly 
uncounted, but, also, all the standards, trophies, records, 
regalia, reliques, furniture and paraphernalia of the 
order. 


* “Secret Societies of tlie Middle Ages.” 

t De Molai When last in Paris, in 1297, held at the baptismal font Hubert 
IV., u sou ot Philip, who died August, lb'OH. 


THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 171 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 

I X the Hark Ages, large edifices were built with great 
solidity, and were, sometimes, whole centuries in 
course of erection. But, then, they lasted whole cen- 
turies, — whole centuries even after their builders were 
dust, and they all of them served a two or threefold 
purpose, at least. A cathedral was, also, a cemetery, — 
a convent was a castle, — a palace, a prison, — a tower, a 
tribunal : and sometimes all were united within the samo 
massive walls of stone. 

There were many such structures in the Paris of the 
Fourteenth Century. The Louvre was a palace and a 
prison ; — Notre Bame a cathedral and a cemetery; — the 
'Temple a convent and a castle; — the Palace of Justice 
a tribunal and a donjon-keep; — while the Grand and 
Petit Chatelets, the citadel of Vincennes, and the Mon- 
astery of the Temple itself, as well as the Abbeys, and 
Churches, and all the other great structures, had their 
dungeons and cells. The Tournells, the Bastille, the 
Hotel de Ville, — all of them of subsequent construction, 
— were each supplied with the same conveniences; to 
say nothing of the Hotels of Pol, and Cluny, and Nesle, 
or the Logis of Nevers, or Rome, or Rheims. 

On the morning of the fifth day of April, 1307, two 
men who were buried in the dungeons of the Grand 
11 


172 THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 

Chaielet were roused from their slumbers by the wild 
and piercing notes of the trumpet-music of the Templars. 

One of these men was somewhat advanced in years, 
and, for a lpng series of heinous offences having been 
condemned by the Provost of Paris to die, now awaited 
a most merited doom. His name was Squin de Florian,* 
and, by birth, he was a native of the village of Beziers, 
in the Department of Plerault, in the ancient Province 
of Languedoc. 

The other prisoner, who was doomed to the same fate, 
for similar enormities, was a much younger man in years, 
though hardly less matured in villainy than his com- 
panion. His name was Hoffb Dei,f and by birth he was 
an Italian of the city of Florence. 

Each of these men bore upon his countenance the 
marks of crime as ineffaceably and as unmistakably as 
in the record of his career; and that, too, without one 
solitary line, or feature, or trait, to redeem it. Yet, 
strange to say, these brutal men clung to that life which 
each had so lightly regarded in others, and had each a 
thousand times justly forfeited in the sight cf Heaven 
and of man, with all the terrible tenacity of that species 
of reptile existence, which, though the body is cut into 
a dozen sections, in each section is said to retain all its 
original vitality. 

“Ha! ISToffo ! ” exclaimed Do Florian, whom the 
trumpets of the Templars, as they were crossing the 
Pont au Changeurs, together with the tramp of hoofs, 

*Or, Squin de Flexian. 
t “A man,” says Villani, “full of iniquity.” 


THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 173 

upon the bridge, had first aroused — “What sounds are 
those ? ” 

- “No — no! unhand me!” cried the slumbering villain, 
struggling in his troubled sleep. “I tell you tlie hour 
hasn’t come! I won't die! — I won’t die!” 

And with an imprecation which might have shaken 
the massive dungeon walls to their centre, he sprang to 
his feet in an attitude of defiance. 

“There — there — don’t be a fool, my boy!” said De 
Florian, scornfully. “I’m not the Provost, thank God ! 
Your hour hasn’t quite come; it is two days off, at least,. 
Do yon hear that strange music?” 

The Florentine pressed his hand to his damp forehead 
and listened. 

“ Well — do you hear the trumpets? ” asked De Florian 
again, after a prolonged silence. 

“I do,” was the low answer as the young man still 
listened with absorbed attention. 

“It is a strange air they play,” said the other. “Did 
you ever hear that air before? ” 

“Often,” was the quick answer. 

“And what is it? ” 

“The battle- step of the Templars.” 

“The Templars!” cried De Florian. “It is a little 
singular that an order so distrusted by the King of 
France as that of the Templar Knights should enter 
his capital with a battle-march ! ” 

“It is y ” said the Italian, after a pause. 

“I wish I knew the secrets of these Templars,” 
returned De Florian, sinking listlessly on his heap of 
d'rty straw and yawning. 


174 THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 

' “And why?” 

“Why? Because I would reveal them to the King, 
and save myself from the gibbet.” 

The Florentine shuddered, but was silent, and still 
listened to the music of the Templars as it died away. 

“In two days we shall be dancing on nothing in the 
Place-St. Jean-en-Grdve, unless a miracle is vouchsafed 
to save us,” continued the old man. “And I hardly 
think it will be.” 

“Do you know that I — that I am a Templar! ” sud- 
denly faltered the Florentine. 

“ You, a Templar!” laughed the old man, scornfully. 

. “Yes, a Templar,” was the answer. 

“And if you are a Templar, how came you here, 
pray ? ” “And why do you remain here ? ” 

“I was a Templar,” replied the other, humbly. 

“Really?” 

“Really!” 

“ Was ? And why are you not no\y ? ” 

The Florentine was silent. 

“ I say, if you were once a Templar, why are you not 
now a Templar? ” asked De Florian, contemptuously. 

“ I was expelled from the order, and doomed to per- 
petual imprisonment, but escaped.” 

“ Ha ! ” cried the other, rising partially to his feet. 

And, for some moments, both men continued silent as 
if buried in thought. 

“My young friend,” at length said De Florian, gravely, 
breaking the deep stillness of the dungeon, “do you 
know that our fate is inevitable?” 


THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 175 

The Italian nodded, but spake not. 

“Have you no wish to confess your sins before you 
die ? ” 

“No confessor will be granted us,” replied the Flor- 
entine, bitterly. 

“Most true. But may we not confess to each other?” 

“We may,” said the young man, after a pause, while 
a strange smile passed over his corpse-like countenance. 
“And I, being the younger, must begin, I suppose.”' 

“Proceed, then,” said De*Florian, with the same sig- 
nificant smile as his companion. 

“Let me see,” said the other, thoughtfully. “In the 
year 1282, at Florence, I robbed my father of sixty be- 
zants, all he had, old fellow, to comfort his declining 
years, — and then I fled. At Mantua, in 1284, I stabbed 
a rival in love, and again fled, and, on my route to Bres- 
cia, met a traveller the same night, and killed him for 
his gold. At Brescia; I ravished a nun of the Convent 
of St. Agnes, and then dashed her brains out. At Pome, 
in, — let me see, — yes, it was in 1288, I poisoned three 
cardinals for the Pope, at fifty florins each, — and cheap 
enough it was 1 I have received as much for a simple 
friar I ” 

“But the Templars ? ” interrupted Be Florian. 

“ Oh, I’m coming to the Templars. Don’t hurry me. 
I must make a clean bosom of it, you know. In 1290, 1 
betook me to the siege of St. Jean d’Acre, and fought so 
like a devil, beneath its walls, that I was made a knight, 
by the accolade of Peter de Beaujeu, Grand Master of the 
Templars, himself. I was in the Tower of the Temple, 


176 THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 


when it fell, burying three hundred of the order under its 
ruins, together with Moslems, numberless. Afterwards I 
was in the Convent of St. Clare, where, as you have 
heard, the nuns cut off their noses and gashed their 
cheeks to render themselves revolting to their Infidel 
invaders. Well, they succeeded. Their outrageous 
virtue was rewarded by instant martyrdom at the 
hands of their captors.” 

And the villain laughed loudly, highly am«sed at the 
reminiscence, for some moments. 

“ But the Templars ? ” again asked De Florian. 

“ Oh, the Templars. W ell, after the fall of Acre, the 
whole order, — a small remnant only it was — repaired to 
Cyprus, and there, in 1294, I became a member.” 

“And then was expelled?” 

“ In 1295. Well, there was another nun in the case.” 

“And the secrets — the mysteries of the order ? ” 

“ Oh, that’s quite a different thing. Old man, were I 
to whisper to you the mysteries of the Temple, even in 
the depths of this dark old dungeon, it would cost me 
my life by torture ! ” 

“Your life l” laughed De Florian. “ It could hardly 
cost you that; your life is bought and sold already, if I 
mistake not. The price is paid and in forty-eight 
hours the purchase will be delivered!” 

Noffo Dei folded his arms on his breast, and paced the 
narrow limits of the dark dungeon in silence. 

“Come — come — finish your confession!” at length 
exclaimed De Florian. “Our time is short. I want to 
begin mine. Tell me all about the Templars you 


THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 177 

certainly owe them no love anyhow, after their treatment 
of you, nor allegiance either. And, as to any such reve- 
lation costing you your life, I am thinking it would be 
much more likely to save it — and mine, too ! ” 

“ Ha ! ” cried the apostate Templar, with a start. 
“ You are right,” he added, slowly. 

“ Well, then, let me act the ghostly father, and do you 
answer the questions I shall propose, truly and faithfully, 
on your soul’s salvation. Such a sinner as you have 
been needs to be catechised, in order to refresh his 
memory, and to draw his numberless villainies out of 
him. It can’t be expected he should confess the half of 
his enormities otherwise. Do you understand ? ” 

“ Proceed,” replied the young man, with a sinister 
smile. 

“ Is it true, then, the horrible crimes with which the 
Temple is charged ? ” 

“ It is ! ” said the apostate. 

“ Is it true that the Novice of that order is compelled, 
when initiated, to spit upon the crucifix three times, and 
then to trample on it, and to renounce Christ ? ” 

“ It is ! ” replied the apostate. 

“ Suppose he refuse ? ” 

“ The Templars have racks ! ” was the brief answer. 

“ But in what did this custom originate ? ” 

“In this : One of the early Grand Masters being con- 
demned to death could obtain his release only by promis- 
ing the Saracen to introduce this custom into his order.” 

“And what do the knights do at their midnight 
meetings ? ” 


178 THE DUNGEON OF TEE GRAND CHATELET. 


“ Many things too horrible to think of, much less to 
speak of ! ” 

“ Do they worship idols ? ” 

“They do. There is a brazen head, like that of a 
man, covered with human slcin, and called Baphumet , 
which is the chief idol; and to this image apostates are 
immolated*.” 

“ And does the Devil ever appear at these meetings ? ” 

“Always l” 

“ In what shape ? ” 

“ In the shape of a big black tom-cat, to which the 
knights all kneel and pay homage.” 

De Florian could but smile at this part of the apos- 
tate^ Confession, but continued : 

“ And is it true, that, when the chaplains of the order 
celebrate mass, they omit the words of consecration ? ” 

“ It is.” 

“ And that the Templars are in truth disciples of the 
false prophet, and have sold Jerusalem to the Paynim? ” 

“ It is.” 

“Their professed vows are obedience, poverty and 
chastity, — do they observe these vows?” 

“ They would obey the Grand Master if he bade them 
slay their own mothers, or even themselves,” was the 
earnest answer. 

“ And as to poverty ? ” 

“The ‘Poor Soldiers of Christ’ are no longer poor, 
whatever else they may be,” laughed the apostate. 


•Absurd as is this charge and all these charges, tbev were actually pre- 
ferred; and incredible as it may seem, upon them the Templais, hlstoiy 
asserts, were actually arraigned. 


THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CIIATELET. 179 

“ And chastity ? ” 

“ Oh, they are very chaste ! — they never marry ! ” 
replied the Florentine, with a smile. 

“ Of course not. To be a husband and to be a Tem- 
plar is impossible. But is it true, as is asserted, that 
scenes too abominable for imagination to conceive are 
sometimes perpetrated within the secrecy of their 
monastic houses ? ” 

“ Often. Those houses are the abode of every dam- 
nable and abominable sin and brutality,” replied the 
apostate. 

“Is it true that, if a Templar ever becomes a father, 
the infant is brought into a full chapter of knights, and 
is then tossed about from one to another ranged in a 
circle, until it expires ? ” 

“it is: and, moreover, the carcass is then roasted, and 
the Templars anoint their beards with the fat that issues 
from it.” 

“And when a Templar dies, his body is burnt, and his 
ashes are mingled with wine, and drunk by the knights, 
to make them more faithful and intrepid, is it not so ? ” 
asked the other villain. 

“ This custom, like many others of the order, was 
derived from the infidels,” was the reply. “In 1174, 
they drank the ashes of Jacques de Maille, in order to 
imbibe his unequalled courage.” 

“And,” continued the inquisitor, “one of the Grand 
Masters cemented an alliance with an infidel prince, 
thus, — each permitting the blood of an artery to flow 
into the same bowl ; and then the sanguine stream being 


180 THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 

mingled with wine, each drank of it in sacred libation to 
the other. Was it not so ? ” 

“So it is said,” asserted the apostate. “This was in 
1248 at the opening of the Eighth Crusade. Saladin was 
the Sultan, and William de Sonnac the Grand Master. 
At all events, vows are thus sealed between Templars, 
whatever the origin. The blood spouts from an arm of 
each into a skull, and is then mingled with wine, and 
drank while yet warm and reeking ! It is called 1 the 
Fifth Libation,’ and is the most inviolable pledge of a 
Templar.” 

“ Suppose this pledge broken? ” 

“That is utterly impossible!” solemnly replied the 
apostate. 

“ Suppose a Templar, shocked at the depravity of the 
order, seeks to withdraw ? ” 

“ He is first torn limb from limb by the rack, and 
then sacrificed to the brazen idol, Hashbaz — his entrails 
being reduced to ashes before his face.” 

“ And apostate Templars, — those who betray the mys- 
teries of the order ? ” asked De Florian, with a malignant 
smile. 

“ Their fate would be too awful for description,” 
replied the Florentine. “In 1169, Melier, an Armenian 
Prince, apostatized and went over to the Infidels; and 
every Templar that fell into his hauds he tortured first, 
and then cut his throat.” 

“ And what was his own fate ? ” 

“ Oh, the Templars caught him at last, and tortured 
him, and then burned him over a slow fire a whole week, 


THE DUNGEON OF THE GKAND CHATELET. 181 

and finally sprinkled his ashes into the waters of the 
Jordan.” 

u And have you no dread of a similar doom,” asked 
De Florian, with a hideous smile, after a protracted 
pause. 

11 1?" exclaimed the Florentine, with a start. 

“You!” said De Florian. 

“ I — why I dread nothing, just at present,” was the 
apostate’s answer, partially recovering his hardihood, 
“save only the gibbet of the Place St. Jean-en-Gr6ve I 
Do yo ? ” 

“No,” w r as the reply. 

In this and like horrible converse, again and again 
repeated, until, at length, each of these infamous 
wretches was fully possessed of all the foul suggestions 
which the depraved imagination of the other could con- 
ceive, and all the silly tales of the times each had ever 
heard, and had given them his assent, — passed the day 
in that murky dungeon. 

That night William Imbert, a monk of St. Dominic, 
Confessor of the King of France and General of the Holy 
Office at Paris, was in the condemned dungeons of the 
Grand Chatelet. 

The next morning, Philip le Bel , the King, Enguerrand 
de Marigni, the Minister, William de Nogaret, the Chan- 
cellor, Hugh de Chatillon, the Constable, and William of 
Paris, the Grand Inquisitor, sat in solemn conclave, in 
the privy council-chamber of the Louvre. 

The door opened. Squin De Florian and Noffo Dei, 
the apostate Templar, weighed down with fetters, were 


182 THE DUNGEON OP THE GRAND CHATELET. 

brought in by Ilenry Capetal, Provost of Paris and 
Governor of the Grand Chatelet, escorted by a file of 
halberdiers. 

The Governor and the guard withdrew. One hour 
afterwards they were recalled. 

The manacles were knocked from the limbs of the 
convicts; and, at sunrise the next morning, instead of 
mounting the gibbet of the Place St. Jean*en-Greve, 
they were free and loaded with gold, and beyond the 
walls of Paris. 


.THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 


183 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE KING AND TIIE GRAND MASTER. 

D URING- each of three successive years — and nearly 
on the same day of the same month of each year 
• — there was a royal marriage at the Palace of the 
Louvre. Chance what chance might — whether war or 
pestilence, or insurrection — there was no postponement 
of these important events. Although Philip le Bel was 
in the v<yy prime of life, and was esteemed “the hand- 
somest man in Europe,” and although his Queen had 
now been dead for two years, he manifested not the 
slightest design or inclination himself to marry again ; 
and yet he seemed resolved that all around him should 
wed — happily or unhappily, he cared not a rush : — but 
wed they should. It was in this way only that he could 
make them, especially the ladies of his Court, subserve 
his own ruling lust — Ambition. Thus he had first 

married his eldest son, Louis, to Margaret of Burgundy ; 
the next year, he married his son Charles to Blanche of 
Artois; and, on the third, his son Philip to her sister 
Jane. In neither of these unions, the second only 
excepted, had the wishes of the parties most interested 
been consulted; and not one of them had proved happy. 
But what cared the King? Did he make the matches 
to make them happy? 

A fourth bridal now took place, which gave promise, 


184 


THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 


at first, indeed, of some little nuptial bliss ; but very 
shortly proved a little more miserable, if possible, than 
either of its predecessors. This was the marriage of 
the Princess Isabella with Edward of England, the second 
sovereign of that name, in that realm. 

In the year 1299, eight years before, wheu Edward 
was but thirteen and Isabella but six years of age, the 
future union of these children was made an item in a 
treaty between their royal sires. Four years afterwards, 
an act of solemn betrothment, by proxy, ensued ; and, 
four years after this, when the bride was but thirteen, 
and the bridegroom but twenty, the young victims were 
led to the altar, and there yoked for life ! 

The dying injunction of Edward the First to his son 
was to marry the daughter of Philip. Froissart tells us 
of another injunction of the old monarch, which was this 
- — that, so soon as the breath had left his body, the said 
body should be boiled in a cauldron, until the bones were 
denuded of flesh, and then, ever after, when the hated 
Scots rebelled, and as army was led against them, his 
skeleton should be borne in the van of the fight I* 
This vow seems not to have been so agreeable to the 
taste of the young King as the former, though attested 
by all the Saints and by all the Barons, for it was never 
fulfilled; but, no sooner had his father’s corpse, bone 3 , 
flesh, and all, been safely deposited in its crypt in West- 
minster Abbey, than the young monarch crossed the 
channel to meet his promised bride, although his eager 


*The celebrate^ Bruce. of Scottish renown, is recorded to have said that 
he dreaded more, even the bones of Edward the First, than Edward the 
Second with all ins hosts l 


THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 185 

infatuation is said by chroniclers to have cost him no 
less a price than the kingdom of Scotland. 

Never had the vast hall of the Louvre witnessed a 
fete more imposing than that on the occasion of this 
apparently auspicious union. Edward was, certainly, 
a very handsome man, unless his protraits greatly 
belie him; and Isabella, (whose precocious charms had 
already gained her the name of la belle , so common 
in her family, so remarkable for personal beauty,) 
is distinguished by Froissart as one of the most beautiful 
women in the world* 

“ Who,” says a chronicler of that splendid bridal fete, 
“ who of all the royal and gallant company, witnesses of 
these espousals, could have believed their fatal termina- 
tion, or deemed that the epithet, ‘She- Wolf of France,’ 
could ever have been deserved by such a bride ? ” 

Yet, so it was; and that very husband was eventually 
the victim of that very bride and Roger Mortimer, her 
desperate paramour! 

History states that four sovereigns, and as many 
Queens, graced that bridal with their presence, and the 
largest array of Princes and nobility ever assembled on 
such an occasion was there. 

Of this brilliant and high-born throng, nearly all the 
personages of our story were members ; and, although a 
full twelvemonth had passed away since that hall of 
St. Louis was the scene of a similar fete, and it had, in 
the meantime, witnessed not a few festal events of sur- 
passing splendor, none had surpassed this. 


* “ Une des plus belles ckimes da monde 


186 THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 

Philip de Launai was still the devoted worshipper of 
the Queen of Navarre; and nightly still the solitary 
lamp in the tall Tower of Nesle guided the solitary 
boatman across the Seine. Her husband, Louis, was 
still in the little kingdom, which had been his, since his 
mother’s death and his coronation at Pampeluna. 

And Jane, of Burgundy, that fair young being, who, 
two years before, in that very hall, had been a most 
unhappy bride, was now the gayest of the gay — for 
Walter de Launai was ever at her side ! 

As for Philip of Poitiers and Charles le Bel , it is true 
they were no longer devoted to the Countess of Soissons, 
or to Madame d’Aumale ; but they were each quite as 
devoted to some other lady of the Court, equally lovely 
and equalty kind. 

It is not a very easy thing, perhaps, especially in the 
history of France, to decidedly stigmatize any one era, 
or any one reign, as more dissolute than any other, how- 
ever often we may be tempted to make that decision. 
But, surely, a mere chronicle of the events of the Court 
of France, in the reign of Philip the Fourth, demon- 
strates an extent of corruption that is appalling. Friar 
Maillard, the Rector of St. Germain FAuxerrois, the chapel 
of the Louvre, rebukes the dissoluteness of the Court 
in a sermon which has reached even the present day, 
in terms of severity and coarseness, which one would 
hardly suppose any degree of corruption could warrant. 
The indignant friar winds up his discourse with the 
vociferation — “ Allez d tons les diables /”* Another 


Go to the Devil 1 


THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 


187 


worthy man urges upon the ladies of the Court the 
manifest impropriety of running when they go to mass, 
and of exposing their bosoms or arms so freely as they 
did ; and exhorts them neither to swear, nor to drink too 
much, and to give up the habit of lying altogether ; 
likewise, to partake of the holy sacrament without 
laughing, and not to soil their fingers too much by greedy 
eating, — the last injunction being somewhat to the 
purpose, inasmuch as forks were the invention of a 
subsequent era ! 

But, to return : — The star of that brilliant assemblage, 
not even excepting the young and lovely bride, was the 
beautiful Countess of Marche. Kadiant with health 
and happiness — fresh as a soft May morning in her most 
voluptuous charms — animated with joy — sparkling with 
wit — beaming with smiles — her transparent eyes suffused 
with the light of love — her glossy hair descending in 
bright masses to a bosom white as alabaster, a‘nd flutter- 
ing with the beatings of its own happy heart — her 
rounded and perfect shape, attired with that elegant sim- 
plicity which ever best sets forth those charms which 
are the gift of nature — Blanche of Artois was the idol of 
every beholder — the adored of all adorers — the beautiful 
star in that bright galaxy, which every eye singled out 
and worshipped, even as the old Chaldeans worshipped 
the orbs of heaven. And who, to have gazed upon her 
then— that bright young being — would, for an instant, 
have recognized in her the sad, and despairing, and 
deserted wife she first appeared ? 

And Adrian de Marigui, who would have recalled in 

12 


188 


THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 


his illuminated features the ceaseless melancholy they 
had once exhibited, Adrian was still a dweller of the 
Louvre. Immediately upon his return from the Abbey 
of Maubuisson, and his union with the Order of the 
Temple, he had received an intimation that he would 
not rejoin the army until further orders ; an intimation 
with which he not unwillingly complied. Ambition, it 
was true, was strong within him; but there was a pas- 
sion now burning at his heart to which all others must 
succumb. 

The fair Countess and the young soldier had a casual 
word or a significant smile for each other as they chanced 
to meet in those lighted halls; but they courted not each 
others notice by act. or phrase, or glance; and little 
could any one have dreamed, in all that splendid throng, 
that she was now all the world to him and he was now 
all the world to her I 

Yet, alas l alas ! it was even so ! 

And Marie — the sweet heiress of Morfontaine — she, 
too, was the centre of a gay circle of admirers, conspicu- 
ous among whom was her most faithful and loving ser- 
vitor, Edmond de Goth. She was still, as ever, surpass- 
ingly lovely; but there was a feverish lustre in her eye, 
and a changeless pallor on her cheek, and each betrayed 
a heart ill at ease. When Adrian approached her, as he 
often did, she turned upon him her large blue eyes with 
a mournful, almost reproachful gaze, and replied to his 
salutation, or compliment, with tones of sadness, which 
her merry voice had never known before. 

At a late hour in the festival, the King entered the 


THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 


189 


I mil, accompanied by Jacques de Molai, the Grand Master 
of the Temple, in earnest converse. Behind them, and 
in attendance, walked Hugh de Peralde, the Grand Prior 
of France, and Pierre de Laigneville, with several other 
noted Templars, accompanied by the Grand Constable, 
the Chancellor, and the Minister of the Realm. 

The Templars had exchanged their chain- mail for 
tunics of crimson satin, which, closciy girded around 
the waist by a belt of steel, fell in full folds to the 
knees ; and, over these, in snowy whiteness, descended 
the flowing mantle of the order, bearing the broad 
red cross on the shoulder. Here and there among the 
throng, in the saloons or the gardens, could be caught, 
likewise, the passing glimpse of some Templar’s mantle, 
who, mindless or thoughtless of the capital of good St. 
Bernard of Clairvaux — “ Ut fratres non conversantur cum 
mulieribus” was whispering words of burning significance 
into some not unwilling ear. And surely, it is not very 
wonderful that young and ardent men, who, for years 
had dwelt on the tented field of Palestine, or within the 
solitary walls of Lknisso, should have dreamed them- 
selves in heaven itself, when, breathing the seductive 
atmosphere of the Louvre, they moved among its lovely ■ 
shapes. Nor is it very wonderful that they should 
have forgotten for a season, as many, doubtless, did, all 
their vows of earth, or hopes of heaven ; nor that their 
blushing companions should have listened with delight, 
scarce less than their own, to words of worship from 
the lips of those dark-browed and dark-bearded men, 
with whose wondrous deeds all Christendom had rung. 


190 THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 

Immediately upon entering tlie ball, tbe King advanced 
with his train to the canopied dais , where the bride and 
bridegroom held their Court and received their guests, 
and presented to the royal pair the herioc Grand Master 
of the Temple. Ilis reception by tho King of England 
was flattering in the extreme. He even left his seat 
beside the bride, and, descending the steps of the dais , 
stood upon the same floor with the warrior-monk while 
they conversed.* To the Grand Master’s inquiries 
respecting his old fellow-soldier, William de la Moore, 
now Grand .Prior of England, Edward replied with 
enthusiasm; and, at length, when the Templar was about 
retiring from the royal presence, the King grasped him 
warmly by the hand, and said : 

“By the rule of your noble order, Grand Master, 
Kings cannot be Templars; yet, could the King of Eng- 
land resign his crown and his robe, he would crave the 
Templar’s cloak and cap in preference to all other 
earthly dignity. Grand Master, Edward of England is 
the friend of the Templar!” 

To these emphatic and significant words, De M’olai 
bowed very low, and then, with brief rejoinder and 
radiant brow, passed on. The King of France bowed 
also, and passed on with his companion, but his brow 
was black and his lips compressed. 

“ It hath pleased you, sire,” said De Molai, after a 
pause of some continuance, in which both proceeded in 
silence — “it hath pleased you to transmit to me two 

* All monarchs conceded princely rank and place to the Master of the Tem- 
ple; and, in councils, lie took precedence of ambassadors and sat beside the 
prelates. 


THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 


191 


documents, desiring counsel as to the propriety of uni- 
ting the Order of the Temple with that of the Hospital, 
and, also, as touching the feasibility of again attempting 
the conquest of the Holy Land.” 

“ And that counsel, Grand Master?” 

“Will to-morrow, sire, be placed in your hands,” was 
the reply. 

“As chief of the Templar Knights, your feelings con- 
cur with your judgment, I suppose, in counselling a 
tenth crusade?” said the King. 

De Molai shook his head. 

“Sire, sire!” he exclaimed with some emphasis, “the 
combined armies of the Cross in all Christendom can 
alone tear the crescent from the minarets of Jeru- 
salem ! ” 

“You feel assured of this?” asked Philip. 

“Sire, I am certain of this! The holy city might be 
taken, but it could not be retained.” 

“And do you think the opinion of Pope Nicholas 
Fourth at all correct in ascribing the recapture of Pal- 
estine to the incessant feuds of the rival orders ? ” 

“Ah, sire, how often hath our glorious Beauseant 
waved fraternally with the standard of the White Cross, 
on the self-same bloody field ! ” exclaimed the old Tem- 
plar, with mournful vehemence. “On the barren sea 
coast of Gaza, upon the fatal eve of St. Luke, a Grand 
Master of the Temple and a Grand Master of the Hos- 
pital lay side by side in death, while but thirty-three 
Templars and but sixteen White Cross Knights survived 
to tell the tale. Beneath the walls of Massoura, a Grand 


192 THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 

Master of St. John was made captive, and a Grand Mas- 
ter of the Temple was slain by a thousand wounds after 
the loss of both eyes, while but four Knights of the Hos- 
pital and four of the Red Cross survived. At the siege 
of Acre each order lost a Master; and while four hun- 
dred Knights of St. John lay dead on the field, but ten 
Templars escaped with life. At the capture of Saphoury 
not a Templar survived; and the castle of Assur* was 
defended by ninety Knights of St. John, and the Mame- 
lukes of Bendocar entered the citadel over the corpses 
of every one!” 

“And when, beneath the walls of that same fortress 
of Azotus, the rival orders themselves met in deadly 
feud, how many knights then survived?” 

The old soldier was silent. The blood mounted redly 
in his swarthy cheek, and contrasted strongly with his 
snowy beard. Philip referred to one of the most terri- 
fic and bloody conflicts that the annals of warfare have 
recorded. Long, and doubtful, and deadly was the fight. 
At last victory declared for the White Cross Knights ; 
but they gave no quarter, as their rivals asked none, and 
not a Templar survived the combat ! 

“Sire,” said the old knight meekly, “the knights are 
but men. Rivalry of rank hath often arrayed in bloody 
feud a brother’s hand against a brother’s life. But when, 
amid their deadliest conflicts, hath there appeared a 
Paynim foe, though exceeding thrice their number, 
when their lances have not been harmoniously united for 
his destruction?” 


* Azotus. 


THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 


193 


“Of the valor of the knights of both orders there can 
exist no doubt,' ” remarked Philip. “Would that they 
were as scrupulous in the observance of their other 
vows!” 

“Sire, I am well aware,” returned De Molai quickly, 
“ that an evil report hath gone abroad of the soldiers of 
the Temple. I know it hath been asserted, and it hath 
even reached mine own ears, that since they have been 
relieved from the toils and perils of the field, they have 
but too freely indulged themselves in the pleasures 
afforded by comfortable Priories, to which they have so 
.long been unused.” 

“Would that were all, Grand Master — would that 
were all! ” said Philip, sternly. 

“I know well, sire, that it hath been asserted that the 
Templar interprets his first vow to mean a blind obe- 
dience only to his chief, his second only poverty of living 
while in camp, and his third to mean only chastity of 
body as set forth in the capital, “ TJt fratres non conversan- 
tur extraneis mulieribus ”* — thereby excusing them- 
selves and each other for intrigues and amours with the 
noblest dames and damsels in the land. Of all of this, 
sire, 1 say, the uncertain bruit hath reached mine ear; 
but I know it not — I believe it not — It can not be!” 

“ Grand Master, it is ! ” exclaimed the King with fierce, 
yet with apparently suppressed, vehemence. 

The effect of this was terrible. That old soldier-monk, 
who a thousand times had braved the blood-billows of 
battle, even as the cliff braves the waves of the ocean, 


* Courtesan, 


194 


TIIE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 


was terrified at a charge like this against his beloved 
order, especially when emanating from such a source. 

“Holy St. Bernard!” he murmured, raising h is eyes 
to heaven. “ Can such things be ! ” 

“ Such things unquestionably are,” coldly rejoined 
Philip. “ The name of Templar in France, if not 
throughout all Europe, hath become identical with 
debauchery, rapine, lust, luxury and every form of crime,. 
“ Boire comme un Templ/ier* is a proverb. Nor is this 
all. Of late there hath come to us knowledge of guilt, so 
dark and desperate, within the Houses of thy commu- 
nity, that we must perforce crave of you early interview 
at a place more fitting than this, when all may be laid 
bare.” 

“ Be it so, be it so ! ” said De Molai, grasping the cold 
hand of the King. “Let me know all— all — all! And 
if, — oh — if,” he added, after a pause, clasping his thin 
and sinewy hands, which seemed composed only of whip- 
cord and bone, and raising his flashing eyes to heaven — 
“if what thou sayest, oh, King, prove sooth; if the 
crimes thou layest at the door of our order have been 
committed — if the foul stain of which thou speakest be 
indeed eating like an ulcer into our heart — be sure, oh, be 
thou sure, that the guilty shall not escape! Holy St. 
Bernard, the lion shall be crushed ! Though he were a 
right hand or a right eye — though he were the brother of 
the same womb, — though he were the noblest of our 
nobles — -the wisest of our counsellors — the bravest of our 
Paladins — the most beloved of our friends — the most 


* To drink like a Templar. 


THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 


195 


powerful of our magnates, he shall feel, he shall feel the 
weight of our righteous wrath! We are no powerless 
ruler, oh, King of France! We, too, Grand Master of 
the Temple, have the power of life and death ! We, 
too, have a jurisdiction, within who.-e bourne but one 
power* can seize from us our victim! We, too, have 
our laws, and our penalties, and our dungeons, aud 
oubliettes, and racks and tortures! But no — no — no — ” 
continued the really kind-hearted old man — “ this can 
not be ! Our ‘children would not thus forget their vows, 
and abuse our goodness ! If they do not love their God 
— as, alas! may indeed be! — they love their noble order 
too dearly thus to disgrace her — they love their Master, 
who so loves them, too devotedly to rend his heart by 
such misbehavior! Good King, let me go, let me go ! 
To the altar! to the altar!” he exclaimed, extending 
for a single instant both of his arms, crossing his right 
foot over his left, and inclining his venerable head to the 
right. 

Instantly every Templar in that hall was around him, 
with evident marks of alarm, and followed him from the 
apartment as he rapidly retreated. 

The King gazed on in mute astonishment. At length 
he exclaimed : 

“What is my power to his?” And slowly, and 
silently, and sadly he left the hall. 

***** 

The last guest had departed. The music had ceased. 


* The Pope. Within the limits of his domain tne Grand Master wc*s 
supreme. 


196 THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 

The last liglit had been extinguished. The great clock 
of Notre Dame liad long since tolled the hour after mid- 
night, and had received as tribute the sullen echoes of 
all the lesser clocks of the capital. The last lone lamp 
had gone out in the Tower of Nesle. The last solitary 
boatman had crossed the Seine. All Paris was asleep 
save her guardians of the night. The Louvre was still. 
Its inmates had retired. Perchance all slept. 

Not all! The poor orphan, Marie Morfontaine. silent, 
sad, wretched, had retreated to her lonely pillow, but 
not to sleep. Alas ! she was too — too miserable. She 
thought of Adrian — she thought of the past, and of the 
present ; and she thought that his hate, his anger, his 
scorn — anything would be preferred by her to his indif- 
ference. Yet that — that, alas! alone seemed hers! 

The white light of dawn was breaking over the towers 
and forests of Vincennes. The chamber of the poor 
heiress of Morfontaine adjoined that of the lovely Coun- 
tess of Marche. Often at night, when ill or sad, she 
had repaired to the chamber of her best friend, the 
Countess ; and the Countess had often repaired to hers. 
One seemed always as much alone as the other, though 
one was a wife and the other a maiden. 

Restless, wretched, Marie Morfontaine rose from her 
sleepless couch, and with noiseless steps she repaired 
to the chamber of her friend for consolation. As she 
crossed the gallery the pale, silvery moonbeams lighted 
her way. 

Raising the curtain which hung before the entrance, 
she crossed the threshold. All was silent. Not a sound 


THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 


197 


— not even a breathing could be heard. Suddenly a low 
rustling rose near the couch of the Countess. She stop- 
ped, she listened, she hid herself behind the tapestry. 
It was repeated, and the next moment a figure glided 
past her. For an instant the moon poured forth her 
pure rays in floods through the grated casement. She 
saw a form ! — she saw a face ! Oh, God ! it was Adrian 


198 


THE REFORM. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE REFORM. 


UIE people of Europe, five hundred years ago, 



R seemed fonder of amusements, and had many 
more of them, than now, many though they now may 
have. There was a feast of the Church almost every 
day of the year; and every coronation, and every royal 
marriage, and every national victory, was succeeded by 
days, and sometimes by weeks of general banqueting 
and jubilee. Hunting parties and hawking parties 
were, also, of common occurrence, as were, also, jousts 
and tournaments ; though these last-named amusements 
seemed the peculiar prerogative of the nobility. 

For nearly a fortnight after the brilliant espousals of 
Edward and Isabella, the halls of the Louvre resounded 
with uninterrupted rout and revel; and the royal Tilt 
yard, in St. Catharine’s Square, was in almost daily 
requisition. 

The white mantle of the Templar was repeatedly 
Seen in the lists, and the honor of the Red Cross was 
nobly sustained. But there was one of the combatants 
who seemed victorious over all comers whomsoever, — 
whether Templar, Hospitaler, or simple knight. His 
plate armor Was azure in hue ; his shield bore no device, 
and his helm no badge, save a scarf of pink and blue — ■ 
the colora cf the Countess of Marche. 


THE REFORM. 


199 


This knight proved to be none other than Adrian 
de Marigni, when, upon the last day of the jousts, he 
was compelled to remove his helmet; and, with 
bended knee, received upon his brow the laurel garland 
of glory from the white hands of the fair Queen of 
Beauty and Love, — Blanche of Artois, the Countess 
of Marche. 

At length, the royal party took leave for their own 
realm, attended by two of the bride’s uncles, Charles of 
Valois and Louis of Clermont, brothers of Philip le Bel, 
and a large array of nobles, as guests at the coronation, 
which shortly after was celebrated with extraordinary 
pomp in Westminster Hall. 

Some days elapsed after the departure of the royal 
cortege, and the Louvre had begun to assume its usual 
aspect, when the Grand Master of the Templars craved 
and obtained an interview with the King. At this 
interview, all the horrible charges against the order 
were fully and formally revealed, — the name of the. 
apostate Templar alone being suppressed. 

Shocked, — terrified, — overwhelmed, the heroic old man 
instantly wrote to the Sovereign Pontiff at Avignon, as 
the spiritual head of the order, praying the earliest and 
most searching investigation of the specified charges.* 
The King, also, wrote to Clement, and despatched as 
the courier of his missive Hexian de Beziers, the Prior 
of Montfaucon, who, as a Templar, had once been sen- 


* Cardinal Cantilupo, the Pope’s Chamberlain, who had long been a Chap- 
lain of the Temple, is said to have made some disclosures prejudicial to the 
order, to his master, about the same time. 


200 


THE REFORM. 


tenced by the Grand Master to perpetual imprisonment 
for heresy and for leading a life scandalous to the order. 

As for Jacques de Molai, lie commenced, at once, most 
vigorous investigation of all charges against Templars 
which, reached him; and enjoined a most severe refor- 
mation of all irregularities which had insinuated them- 
selves into the order. The Buie of St. Bernard was 
most rigidly enforced. Establishments were reduced, — 
indulgences curtailed, — equipage and costume shorn of 
their ornaments, — penance inflicted on the refractory, — 
the discipline of the Holy Office administered, — the 
mode of life, diet, habit, and requisitions of the Capitals 
strictly enjoined, and the whole order, under pain of the 
severest penalties for disobedience, brought back to its 
primitive state of ascetic monasticism ; while several of 
the members, against whom charges of irregularity had 
been preferred and sustained, were, by the arbitrary will 
of the Grand Master, who was solo lord of life and limb 
within the bourne of his own domain, with the assent 
of the chapter, immured in the “penitential cell” of the 
Temple. 

It was in vain that remonstrances to the severity of 
this reform and warm protests arose from some of the 
elder companions of the order, who themselves were, 
and ever had been, unexceptionable patterns of Templar 
virtue and Templar valor. In vain was it urged that 
the Rule of St. Bernard applied rather to the discipline 
of the order in the Camp than in the Priory, and that 
the battle-scarred soldier merited some little relaxation 
and indulgence, when no longer in the field against a 


THE REFORM. 


201 


Paynim foe. De Molai’s sole reply to each and all these 
representations was the single phrase: 

“ It shall be so ! — Juheo ! Obey ! ” 

There was, also, instituted another reform in the 
order, which armed against it foes whose vengeance was 
long felt. This was enforced by a statute providing that 
none but actual knights of the order, who had served 
in its ranks, should be entitled to its franchises, dis- 
tinctions, and immunities; or to wear the costume or 
insignia of the Temple. Even those who had really 
done battle against the Moslem under the glorious 
Beauseant , but were not knights, yet, since their return 
to Europe, had continued to wear the mantle and the 
cross of the order, were enjoined never again to assume 
that sacred badge, save only when in actual service 
in the field. To these inferior brethren was assigned 
a garb and cloak of black, and they were designated 
Auxilliaries , or “Serving Brothers of the Temple.” 

The effect of an ordinance like this on that fierce and 
haughty militia, who, having fought an hundred battles 
on the sands of Palestine, and, all covered with scars, 
and blackened by a foreign sun, and, emaciated almost to 
skeletons by incredible toils, had, at last, few in number, 
and worn with fatigue, come home to enjoy their hard- 
won glory, and pass the remnant of their lives in peace, — 
may perhaps be conceived, but cannot be described. 
Aloud, on their lives, they dared not murmur ! But 
their curses were deep — deep : and the day was unhap- 
pily drawing nearer than ever they could have dreamed, 
when those curses were to meet a dreadful fulfillment j 


202 


THE REFORM. 


and a cup of vengeance, fuller than even their fevered 
and burning hearts could have craved, was to be proffered 
in mantling fullness of their lips ! 

****** 

The dread discovery of Marie Morfoutaine, on the 
night of the bridal fete at the Louvre, was, as yet, a secret 
within her agonized bosom; and of that discovery, the 
guilty parties themselves knew no more than all others. 

Horror-struck, terrified, — almost petrified at the scene 
she beheld, she had leaned against the cold wall of stone 
beneath the tapestry for support, and had pressed her 
hand upon her heart to still its throbbings. At length, 
she recovered strength to retreat, — to retreat, more 
stealthily even than she had come, back to her own 
apartment; but not, alas! until her terrible apprehen- 
sions had been confirmed beyond the possibility — beyond 
the hope of a doubt! 

The first emotions of Marie Morfontaine, when she 
again found herself upon her lonely couch, were those 
of grief — grief irrepressible, — unspeakable, — overwhelm- 
ing. The terror inspired by the scene she had witnessed 
was gone; but, oh, the agony of tears that succeeded! 
That he — he, her first, her last, her only love, — he, 
whom more than even her Maker she had worshipped, — 
he, who, for long years, from her earliest girlhood, had 
been the idol of her imagination, — the object of her 
thoughts by day, and of her dreams by night, — whose 
dear image she so often conjured up in her fancy, when 
he was far away amid peril and blood, when bowing at 
the altar of her faith ; and for whom she had so often— 


THE REFORM. 


203 


so fervently prayed; — that he, for whom alone, of all 
living men, her pure bosom had ever indulged one 
throb of passion, and on whom, as the husband of that 
bosom, she had so fondly dreamed, — that he 

And then her thoughts reverted to that lovely, guilty 
being who had seemed her friend ; and her heart grew as 
hard as steel, and as cold as ice. Gradually, involun- 
tarily, almost unconsciously, a dreadful purpose sprang 
up in her frenzied heart, and began to assume shape and 
proportion. She was no longer a simple, timid, feeble 
girl. She was a woman, — a matured woman, with all 
a woman’s passions and all a woman’s powers. A single 
hour, a single event, a single thought, had wrought the 
vast change. Sooner — sooner than lie should be clasped 
in love in the arms of another, she would see that once- 
idolized form dead — dead at her feet ! 

The events, which have been detailed, as succeeding 
the departure of Edward and his bride from Paris, served 
to develop and mature the secret purpose of Marie Mor- 
fontaine, originally vague and undefined, and to give it 
force and aim. She had discovered that Adrian de 
Marigni was a fellow companion of the Order of the 
Temple, and she had learned that, by her terrible secret, 
his liberty, if not his life, was forfeit. This was enough, 
and, as one no longer a girl, — as a matured and injured 
Avoman, — the power to conceal, and to dissemble, and to 
revenge, had suddenly, even to her own amazement and 
dismay, become hers ! 

"13 


204 


THE FAREWELL. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE FAREWELL. 

I T was a soft night in Jane. The full moon was 
beaming high in Heaven, and pouring her mellow 
radiance through the grated casements of the Louvre. 
The warm and perfumed breath of summer stole up 
from the royal gardens of the Seine, and danced along 
the gilded ripplings of its waters. 

Alone, in her chamber, sat Blanche of Artois. She 
was pale — very pale ; but in her large eye burned a 
gloomy, yet feverish fire, and her lips were compressed 
as if with pain. Her beautiful hair was strained back 
from her forehead, and lay in loose masses on her snowy 
shoulders. Her dress was a robe of flowing white, con- 
fined at the waist by a crimson cordelib'e. The sleeves 
were full and, falling away, disclosing an arm of ivory 
whiteness and exquisite symmetry, surpassed only in 
perfection by a full and voluptuous bosom. Her foot was 
encased in a slipper of black velvet, and seemed in pro- 
portion hardly that of a child. And yet the figure was 
a woman’s, with all the indescribable charms of matured 
development. 

“ Why does he not come? ” at length she murmured, 
as the clock of St. Germain 1’Auxerrois tolled forth the 
hour of ten. “ For one whole month we have not met! 
It was not so once ! How changed he is ! Of late he 


THE FAREWELL. 


205 


has even seemed to avoid me. And, then, he looks so 
pale, and so sad, and so wretched. What — what can 
have caused this change? To-night I will know all. 
But will lie come? lie promised — but so sadly — so 
reluctantly!” 

The unhappy woman fell back on the couch, and 
clasping her hands across her forehead, and closing her 
eyes, seemed, for some time, a prey to bitter -thoughts. 
Again and again the clock of the Louvre chimed the 
quarters as they passed ; but she still remained motion- 
less, extended like a lifeless thing upon the couch. 

Suddenly, at length, she started from her recumbent 
posture, and, sustaining herself with one hand, pressed 
the other wildly to her temple, and strained back the 
long hair. For an instant, she thus sat ; her head bent 
forward in the attitude of listening — her lips apart— 
her eyes intently fixed upon the door. The next, she 
had sprung, with a low cry of joy, to her feet, and 
thrown herself into the arms of Adrian de Marigni, who 
softly entered. 

“ Ah, Adrian, I knew, I knew it was you,” she mur- 
mured in tones of tendcrest devotion ; and again and 
again she clasped her lover passionately to her heart. 
Fondly, yet sadly, the embrace was returned. 

“ Come ! — come l — come I ” she at length added. And 
grasping his hand, she drew him to the couch, on which, 
in rich floods of effulgence, the full moon was now 
streaming, while all other portions of the apartment were 
in deepest shade. 

Seating him on the side of the low couch where the 


206 


THE FAREWELL. 


moonlight was brightest, and its rajs poured full on his 
form, she threw herself on her knees at his feet, and, 
pressing back his dark hair lrom his forehead, gazed 
with intense solicitude into his face. 

Instantly, with dismay and terror, she started! And 
well might she be shocked — affrighted at the dreadful 
change she there beheld ! For a month these unhappy 
be'ngs had hardly met, and then but casually, for a 
moment; and now, in the pale moonbeams, the altera- 
tion liis aspect and features had, during that interval, 
undergone, filled her with dismay. 

“Adrian — Adrian!” she exclaimed in alarm, “why 
do you gaze on me so strangety? Why do you not 
speak to me? Why are you so pale, and so thin, and 
so haggard ? Oh, you. are ill, } t ou are ill, and I have 
not known it ! ” 

And earnestly and anxiously she pressed her lips to 
his forehead. 

“ Why do you not speak to me, Adrian? ” she softly 
added, again resuming her examination of his counte- 
nance. There was something in its sad expression 
which filled her with undefined terror and apprehension. 
Silently— fondly — his dark eyes rested with mournful 
significance on her pale and beautiful face, and on those 
glorious orbs which, suffused with all a woman’s ten- 
derness, were now lighted up by the mild moon of a 
summer’s night. And the soft night-breeze, cooled by 
careering over the Seine, stole gently in at the barred 
casement, and fanned her fevered brow. 

Adrian de Marigni answered not. He returned not 


THE FAREWELL. 


207 


the warm caress — nor the ardent gaze — nor the soft 
pressure of those burning lips. Like some marble image 
of cathedral aisle — inanimate — motionless — almost ex- 
pressionless, his eye retained the same fixed and change- 
less gaze, and his face the same colorless hue. 

“ Adrian,” said the Countess, sadly, shaking her head, 
“ you do not love me as you did 1 ” 

The young man raised his eyes to Heaven. “ Would 
to God it were so ! ” he mournfully ejaculated. 

“ Are you ill, Adrian ? ” asked the Countess, anx- 
iously. 

lie shook his head. 

“Has anything occurred to trouble you?” she 
continued. 

De Marigni shuddered, but was silent. 

“/ have not displeased you, Adrian?” she tenderly 
asked. 

“ You ! ” was the emphatic and quick response, as if 
something were suggested, which, in its very nature, 
was impossible. 

“Then why — Avhy do you look on me so strangely — 
so coldly?” she asked, throwing her white arms around 
his neck, and pressing her soft cheek to his. 

She stalled. That cheek — those lips were ice. The 
lips — the cheek of a corpse could not have been more 
impassive. 

“ Oh, Adrian — Adrian ! ” she exclaimed in uncontrolla- 
ble terror, starting to her feet, “why is this? Why is 
it that’ for the whole month past, you have not sought 
this chamber, as you did before? Why is it that you 


208 


THE FAREWELL. 


Lave constantly striven to avoid me, and so repeatedly 
declined to meet me when I Lave urged? Why the 
terrible change that has come over you, not more in 
manner than in person ? Why are you so sad, and so 
silent, and so pale ? Why — oh, why do you look so 
wretched? You never seek me now as you once did. 
Either you love me no more, or,” — and, for an instant, 
her dark eyes sparkled with fury, and her voice sank 
almost to a whisper — “you love another! ” 

A sad, almost reproachful, smile on the lips of her 
companion was the only answer. 

“Forgive — forgive me, Adrian,” she quickly exclaimed, 
again dropping at his feet. “ Oh, how could I doubt 
you? But tell me — tell me, dearest,” she continued in 
fond and imploring accents ; “ tell me, why do you not 
come to see me — your Blanche — your wife — as you did ? 
Tell me why, so often, at night, you repair to the Palace 
of the Temple alone? ” 

The young man gave a slight start. 

“ Ah, you see, I know all your movements,” she added, 
with a smile that died instantly on her lips. “ Would 
you believe it, Adrian — now }^ou won’t be offended with 
me, will you? — would you believe that the proud Coun- 
tess of Marche had nightly followed your steps for whole 
weeks past, in the garb of a Templar? ” 

Dc Marigni again started. And well might he. He 
Lad, indeed, never dreamed of such devotedness. 

Blanche of Artois continued: 

“ That she Lad traced you from street to street to the 
gate of St. Denis, or of St. Martin, and thence to the 


THE FAKEWELL. 


209 


glim walls of that hated Temple, into which, in company 
with others, you mysteriously' disappeared ; and that 
then, all night, even until the gray morning’s dawn, she 
had watched its gloomy towers, and the lights which 
fi tted past its casements, and listened to the strange 
sounds that issued from its portals, when they chanced 
to unfold. And then, at dawn, when you again appeared 
from beneath those dark battlements, pale and haggard, 
and exhausted, she had regained the Louvre before you, 
and seen you enter your appartrnent — only to issue again 
at night, again to repeat your lonely visit ? ” 

The young man still continued silent. 

“Adrian — Adrian de Marigni I ” suddenly, with start* 
ling earnestness, exclaimed the Countess, “tell me — tell 
me — for I will know what do you at night in that awful 
pile ! ” 

De Marigni was still unmoved. It seemed as though 
no earthly feeling could ever move him more. He was 
stone — ice. 

“ Aye, but I will know ! ” vehemently repeated the 
Countess, now thoroughly roused. “ Dark tales are 
abroad! — tales which never would have sought me, had 
I not sought them, so terrible are they ! — dreadful tales 
of more dreadful deeds, by that fearful order, in that 
awful pile! — that order, — oh, fool! fool! — of which, at 
my desire, and through my influence, you became a 
companion ! ” 

De Marigni shuddered, but spoke not. 

“You will not tell me? ” cried Blanche. “Be it so. 
But be sure — be very sure — I will know all — all — though 


210 


THE FAREWELL. 


the rack should tear the guilty secret from the bosoms 
of these human fiends ! What! — what ! — do they think 
they can wreck the earthly peace of Blanche of Artois 
with impunity ? Do they think they can tear from her 
heart the only being on earth she ever truly loved,. and 
the deed go unavenged ? Adrian de Marigni, you do 
not know me! I sometimes think,” she mournfully 
added, pressing her white hand to her forehead, “ that I 
do not know myself. To you, Adrian — to you, I have 
been a weak — a fond — perhaps a guilty woman; yet, am 
I — and to you, now, for the first time, do I avow it— the 
real Queen of this realm ! Not one act does Philip of 
France on which the will and the judgment of Blanche 
of Artois are not first asked. This is no vain boasting, 
Adrian ; you do not think it so; you know it is not so. 
And now, by this power, do I here swear the destruc- 
tion of that hated ” 

“Blanche!” exclaimed De Marigni, with mournful 
earnestness. 

“And why not? — why not?” she rejoined in tones 
of wildest excitement. “Oh, God! has not that hated 
order destroyed me ? — peace — love— happiness — for- 
ever ! Everything — everything seems plain to me now. 
IIow strange I saw it not before! Whither go you, 
Adrian de Marigni, at the hour you once sought my 
bosom ? Why, now, to me is your heart stone and your 
lip ice? Why is that eye, which once returned the 
glance of mine with kindred and sympathizing flame, now 
cold and meaningless in its gaze as the eye of the dead? 
Why are those arms, which once clasped me in rapture 


THE FAREWELL. 


211 


to your breast, now lifeless and leaden, and that breast 
itself as bard and as chill as the bronze of a monument ? 
And more — infinitely more than all else beside — why, 
oh, why, are you, my own beloved Adrian, the hag- 
gard and wretched be’ng you are ? Why is this ? ” 

Alas ! there was no answer. 

“ I will tell you why it is,” continued Blanche of 
Artois. “ My dreadful suspicions have this night be- 
come certainties! — my horrible imaginings more horrible 
realities ! There are scenes that transpire within yonder 
gloomy walls of the Templar Knights — scenes too fear- 
ful even for the fancy to depict — scenes of terrible, 
abominable, unnatural crime — orgies of fiends ! orisons 
of the damned! revellings of the lost! And you — you, 
Adrian de Marigni, alas! alas! — through my own most 
fatal agency — through the agency of one, who — oh, God 
knows ! — would gladly yield the last drop of her blood 
for you ! — you have become the victim of that fraternity 
of fiends ! And shall I not dash asunder those manacles 
that bind ? Shall I not break into atoms those fetters — - 
dissolve that dreadful charm — send back those demons 
to the Hell whence they were evoked, and level with 
the dust those black chambers which have witnessed 
their cruelties and their crimes ? Shall I not be avenged ? 
Shall I not? Why shall I not? Why shall I not, since 
mine is the power, sweep that detested order from this 
realm — from the earth itself? Why shall I not swear to 
destroy ” 

“ Blanche,” murmured De Marigni, in tones of melan- 
choly sweetness, “ would you destroy me f ” 


212 


THE FAREWELL. 


“ Thee ! ” 

“ Am not I a Templar, also ? ” 

“ And are you not a victim, Adrian ? ” asked the 
Countess, mournfully. 

De Marigni answered not. 

“ Are you not, Adrian ? ” she solemnly repeated. 
“ And am not I ? ” 

“ Yet, for my sake, Blanclie,” said the young man, “ for 
the sake of one who, for his wild love of you, has resigned 
everything else in the world, and who now, for the last 
time ” 

“ What { what say you? ” cried Blanche, in terror. 

“Ah, is it not the last time ? ” he sadly continued. 
“ Blanche — Blanche — my love — my wife — my own be- 
loved Blanche — I have to say to thee farewell — farewell 
forever ! ” 

The Countess gazed a moment into the pale face of 
her companion, as if stupefied. Then, bursting into a 
wild incredulous laugh, she exclaimed: 

“ Oh, no l — no ! — -no ! — not quite so bad as that , Adrian. 
That — why, that's impossible ! God permits his creatures, 
sometimes, to become very wretched, because, doubtless, 
of their sins; but he never would permit such misery on 
the earth as that." 

“And, yet— and yet, my own Blanche,” returned 
Adrian, in tones of heart-rending sorrow, clasping her 
exquisite form to his bosom, as a parent might clasp a 
child — “ and yet it must be even so ! A power mightier 
than my own tears me from you [ Blanche — Blanche — 
could all your menaces have full accomplishment on the 


^HE FAREWELL. 


213 


order you so hate, I should not be free. No earthly 
power can dissolve the unseen bonds that bind rne. Alas 1 
not God himself can free the Templar from his fetters! ” 

But Blanche answered not. Like an infant hushed to 
its slumber, while the big tear yet stands undimmed 
upon its cheek, and sobs yet shake its innocent bosom, 
the beautiful victim clung to the form of him whom 
more than all the world she loved. Whatever the past 
had been — whatever the future might be — she was now 
with him, she was in his arms ; and the poor wretch 
was, for a moment, happy. 

Again the young Templar spoke. 

“ I had hoped — oh, I had believed, that never again 
could I be moved by human joy, or human grief ; by 
passion, or by hope ; by love, or by hate. I had hoped 
that my heart had, indeed, become stone, as you have 
said, and my lips had become ice. But, alas ! it is not 
so. We part, Blanche, we part. I came only to say 
farewell. For that only could I have come at all; and 
for your sake I trusted in that calmness, that calmness 
of despair into which I believed my own heart was 
petrified. Alas, I knew not my weakness ! But do not 
let us grieve — do not let us grieve ! Our parting, Blanche, 
will, at the longest, be but brief. There is another and 
better world that this,” continued the unhappy man, 
raising, resignedly, his dark eyes to the bright heavens; 
“ and to this world we are surely neither of us so wedded, 
my Blanche, as to lament that we leave it. In this 
world, the love we have felt and shared, however we 
may have viewed it,’ is called guilt. Well, well, I 


214 


THE FAREWELJj. 


suppose tliat it is so. But in that brighter and better 
world — there, Blanche, there, where the morning star 
now beams so softly, and looks down so quietly, as if 
in sympathy with the sorrows of this dark earth — in 
that world our deep love will be no crime — will violate 
no vow! Until then, my Blanche until then, farewell! 
farewell ! farewell ! ” 

* * * * * * * , 

Oh, it was a wild and terrible parting! 

******** 

The day was dawning. Adrian de Marigni laid that 
lifeless and lovely form on the couch, and, for the last 
time, pressed his lips to that cold and pallid brow. 


THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 


215 


CHAPTEB XIX. 

THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 

I T was in the month of May, 1307, that the King 
of France transmitted to Pope Clement Fifth, at 
Avignon, by the hands of Ilexian, Prior of Montfaucon, 
as already intimated, a detailed account of the revela- 
tions of Squin de Florian and the apostate Templar, 
Noffo Dei. At the same time, De Molai, Grand Master 
of the order, addressed the' Sovereign Pontiff, as has 
also been said, on the same subject, demanding strictest 
scrutiny of the charges preferred, and submitting the 
Fraternity to the severest penalties, should they be sus- 
tained : but, demanding, likewise, the infliction of pun- 
ishment equally severe upon their calumniators, should 
their specifications prove false. 

Three months passed away, during which the events 
last related had transpired. At length, a Papal Bull, 
bearing date the 24th day of August of the same year, 
appeared, in which Clement declared that the crimes 
ascribed to the Templars seemed to him not only 
improbable, but impossible; yet, for the satisfaction of 
his “ dear son of France,” he had resolved on a judicial 
investigation of the charges preferred, and he required 
the King to forward him, at once, all evidence tending 
to establish, and the Grand Master all evidence tending 
to controvert the grave accusations. 


210 


THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 


The rage of Philip at wliat he deemed palpable indi- 
cation on the part of his Holiness to evade the sixth 
article of the secret compact which had raised him to 
the Papal chair, and, at a movement which, by all, was 
deemed a manifestation of favorable feeling towards the 
proscribed and persecuted order, knew no bounds. His 
private counsellors, consisting of Enguerrand de Marigni, 
Prime Minister, William de Nogaret, Chancellor, Hugh 
de Chatillon, Grand Constable, William Imbert, or Wil- 
liam of Paris, Grand Inquisitor and Confessor of the 
King, William da Plessis, a Dominican priest, and 
Hexian, Prior of Montfaucon, the disgraced Templar, 
each one and all of them avowed and irreconcilable foes 
of the order, were, at once, assembled, and, upon full 
and patient consideration of the subject, it was resolved, 
for the present, to simulate entire compliance with the 
papal mandate, and to await the issue of events prelim- 
inary to more active movements, meanwhile, as if in 
obedience to the Ball of his Holiness, making use of 
every effort to accumulate proof in substantiation of 
the charges already preferred. 

But Philip had another counsellor, on whose judgment 
he relied, and whose suggestions he followed far more 
implicitly than those of any one, or, indeed, of all the 
others named. That counsellor was the strong-minded 
Blanche, Countess of Marche ; and of her counsellings the 
effect ere long became painfully manifest. 

Ever since that terrible night in June, Adrian de 
Marigni had disappeared from all eyes. At first, his 
sudden absence gave rise to no little comment at the 


%THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 217 

Louvre. But this was shortly stopped by the rumor 
that he had returned to the camp of Charles of Valois, — 
a rumor which was sustained by the authority of the 
Minister himself, who had received from his son a note, 
giving notice that he should, for some time, be absent 
from Court, and desiring that all inquiry respecting him 
nrght be discountenanced. 

But, however satisfactory all this might prove to 
every one else, — even to a father and a mother who 
doated on a son, — there were two inmates of the Louvre 
to whom it was far — far otherwise. Alas ! they knew of 
that son and his fate far more than even those who had 
given him being ! 

Blanche of Artois, for some days after the farewell 
visit of her lover, closely kept her apartments on plea of 
illness, a plea — unlike most pleas of ladies under similar 
circumstances — anything but untrue. 

At first, when recovering from the swoon in which she 
had been left, she found herself, indeed, deserted, the recol- 
lection of the past night pierced like an arrow through 
her breast. Crushed, overwhelmed, despairing, wretched, 
she wished only to die, and regretted only that ever 
again her eyes had opened on a now abhorred existence. 

But this did not last. With minds possessed of 
strength and elasticity such as hers, despair rarely en- 
dures. As the softer and gentler emotions of love and of 
sorrow subsided, a deeper and darker passion arose in 
her heart, and took unresisted possession of all her 
powers. Hour after hour, day after day, and night after 
night, through all its still and sleepless watches, alone 


218 THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 

in her solitary chamber, did she brood over her fancied 
wrongs and her real sorrows. And in that lonely cham- 
ber was conceived and matured a scheme of vengeance, 
the mere recital of which, for full five centuries has 
struck the world with awe ! 

During this seclusion, Blanche received but one guest — 
the King — except, indeed, her husband, the gay and hand- 
some Count of Marche, who dashed in, for an instant, 
early one morning, before she had risen from her couch — 
or, rather, just as she was dropping to sleep — to inquire 
if she were really ill, as he had heard it rumored — all 
equipped for a hawking party, falcon on fist, along the 
Seine ; and then dashed out again, and the next moment 
was galloping out of the gate of the Louvre, at the side 
of one of the fairest ladies of the Court. 

But what cared Blanche of Artois for this ? The time 
had long gone by when her heart had a single throb for 
Charles le Bel. Long ago had he forfeited all claim to 
her affection, and he knew it. And now he might love 
her, he might hate her, he might despise her, he might 
pity her, it was all one to her. For him she felt — noth- 
ing at all: unless, perchance, an indifference so utter 
and so profound as was hers may be dignified by the 
name of a feeling. She neither desired him to visit 
her, nor to avoid her. She desired nothing whatever, 
with reference to him. If he were happy, she cared not ; 
were he wretched, it is probable she would have cared as 
little ; had he been ill, she would quite likely have visi- 
ted him ; but, if he had died, she wa3 hardly the woman 
to have condescended to the mockery of a tear. 


THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 


219 


Why should she ? 

There was but one thing with reference to Cliarles of 
late, since his unblushing and notorious infidelity to his 
marriage vow, and, especially, since her own mad passion 
for Adrian de Marigni, which seemed at all to interest 
her, and that, strangely enough, was his gallantry to ladies 
of the Court. It seemed to afford her more satisfaction 
than even himself; nay, her azure- eyes would sparkle 
with absolute gladness when she observed his und ; sguised 
assiduity to — any woman but herself! Perhaps she laid 
the sweet unction to her soul that the unfaithfulness of 
Charles to her not only palliated, but authorized her own 
to him ; and, perhaps, she was secretly pleased with any- 
thing, or with any person, who could divert the atten- 
tion of her legal, yet most inconstant lord from her own 
love and lover, and her own fair and inconstant self! 

But all this was a thing of the past. It was all over 
now, and forever! A darker and deadlier passion than 
love now possessed a heart, which had once been all — all 
tenderness. She alone, of all the Court, made no inquiry 
respecting the mysterious disappearance of Adrian de 
Marigni, who, since that summer night, had been seen no 
more. She, alone, had nothing to inquire about. Every- 
thing was known to her ! Everything? Not quite every- 
thing ; and it was to complete that knowledge — it was 
to make certainty more certain, that, on the evening of 
the fourth day of her seclusion, she sent for her fair 
young maid of honor, Marie Morfontaine, the boy-love 
and betrothed bride of the young soldier, Adrian de 
Marigni, Count Le Portier and son of the Premier of 
14 


220 THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 

France — prior to his passion for Blanche, and. through 
her influence, his initiation, also, into the illustrious and 
ancient Order of Templar Knights. 

The message of the Countess found poor Marie very 
much in the situation of the Countess herself. She, too, 
was a recluse. She, too, was quite as ill — and quite as 
-miserable, — at least, and no doubt she thought she was — - 
as her noble friend. But then she was not a Princess, 
.she was only the orphan heiress of immense estates ; and 
iwhat right had she to have feelings, or to shut herself 
up to indulge them ? 

No, no; the proud Countess of Marche demanded the 
presence of her maid of honor, and the poor maid of 
'honor, although it was hardly less than death for her to 
^obey, dared not send back refusal or apology. 

And, so, Marie Morfontaine, pale and spiritless, at once 
"repaired to the private apartments of the Countess of 
Marche. 

The Countess was reclining on a couch, garbed in a 
white robe cle chambre , her head sustained by pillows. 
The rich effulgence of a summer sunsetwas streaming in 
horizontal rays through the western casements, and threw 
n, gloom of more than human beauty on her pallid cheek. 
Her dark hair lay neglected in loose and glossy masses 
on the pillow, and her large azure eye flashed with un- 
earthly brilliancy — the limpid and pellucid brilliancy of 
a beautiful gem. 

“ Ah,” sighed poor Marie, as she timidly glanced at 

that lovely face, and that faultless form, “ no wonder < 

no wonder he was false to me ! ” 


THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 221 

But she had little leisure, poor girl, for sighing, or for 
soliloquy. Blanche was evidently awaiting the visit. 

“ Be seated, Marie,” said the Countess in those soft, 
kind tones she had ever used to the orphan. “Not 
there, dear,” she added, as the young lady was retreating 
to a distant chair. “ Here, come here ; sit close beside 
me on the couch, and turn your face to the light, so that 
I can. see you. Heavens, how pale you are ! You seem 
ill, Marie ; are you ill ? ” 

“Yes, madame,” was the trembling answer. 

“ And this is why you have not visited me of late, is 
it not, Marie?” asked the Countess, kindly. “You 
should let me know when you are ill, or — or — unhappy^ 
and not desert me ; /, too, am ill.” 

The orphan replied not, but her evident agitation 
could not escape the keen eye of Blanche, who was 
watching every variation of light, or of shadow, on that 
colorless face. 

It would have been a group not unworthy the study 
of a master — of a Cimabue, for example, had he not 
died some seven years before — that sweet young heiress 
and that splendid princess, as they sat side by side on 
that couch, illuminated by that crimson light ; the one a 
Muse, the other a Grace; one a Minerva, the other a 
Yenus; one a Melpomene, the other a Euphrosyne; 
both beautiful, both mournful. 

“Tell me, Marie,” said the Countess, after a pause, 
during which her searching eye was fixed on the shrink- 
ing girl, “ tell me the gossip of the Court, tell me of 
your affair with Edmond de Goth.” 


222 THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 

“What affair, madame? ” coldly asked the orphan. 

“ Oh, there is no necessity for such excessive coyness, 
if you are a maiden, Marie. Your love-affair, to he 
sure, of which every one knows, and every one talks!” 

“If there is, or has been, any love between Count 
Edmond de Goth and myself, madame, it must be, or 
have been, all on his side,” was the sharp answer. 

“And why do you not love him, Marie?” asked the 
Countess. “ He loves you.” 

“Because, madame ” 

“Well?” 

“ Because, I hate him, madame ! ” was the reply. 

And the young lady, with heightened color and spark- 
ling eye, certainly looked all she said. 

“ Hate him ! ” rejoined the Countess with a smile ; “ well, 
that is, doubtless, a good reason for not loving him ! But 
hate — it is a harsh word for lips so soft as yours, Marie! 
Yet, why do you hate the gallant Edmond? Any lady 
at Court might be proud of his preference.” 

“ He has been the cause to me — at least one cause — 
of great unhappiness, madame,” replied Marie, sadly. 

“ And how so?” 

“ There was another I loved, madame ; and he loved 
me, oi*ce,” faltered the poor girl. 

“ And he? ” asked the Countess. 

There was no answer. 

“Was Adrian de Marigni, was he not?” 

“ He was.” 

“But you were children, Marie, when he loved you. 
Has be loved you since?” 


THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 


223 


“ I — I have hoped so, madame,” faltered poor Marie. 

It was now the Countess who was excited. 

“And does he love you now?” she quickly asked, — > 
herself partaking, for a moment, of the agitation of her 
companion. 

“N o, madame, no! ” was the sad but decided answer. 

The Countess breathed more freely. 

“And why not?” she asked. 

“ Because, madame ” 

“ Well, well? ” said the princess, impatiently. 

“Because he loves another, madame.” 

“ And how know you that? ” was the quick question. 

“I saw — I saw him in her chamber, madame.” 

“But that proves nothing,” returned the Countess, 
anxiously, after a pause. 

“I saw him in her chamber after midnight, madame!” 
exclaimed the girl, with an effort. 

“Ah, that is different,” replied Blanche. 

Her voice was low, her tones suppressed, her lips 
livid. 

“And who is this rival? ” she asked, after a pause, in 
tones yet lower. 

Both women seemed to feel themselves on the verge 
of a dreadful development, yet neither had power to 
resist the weird fascination which drew them to the 
precipice. 

“My rival*, madame?” sighed Marie. “Oh, she is 
one far, far my superior.” 

“ In rank ? ” 

“Infinitely above me.” 


224 


THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 


“ In beauty?” 

“Ok, madaine ” — and tke poor girl stole a glance at 
the lovely face and matckless form beside ker — “ I have 
no ckarm of mind, or of person, to compare with kers. 
Indeed, I do not wonder lie loved ker in preference to 
me, and I do not blame kim now . 11 

“ Marie Morfontaine,” cried tke Countess,, rising from 
ker pillow and grasping tke arm of ker trembling com- 
panion, “ wko is tliis rival?” 

The young girl was silent. 

“ On your allegiance, I charge you, Marie Morfontaine, 
tell me: who is tliis rival?” repeated tke Countess — in 
wild, harsh tones. 

“ Madame — madame— I dare not ” began tke ter- 

rified girl. 

“ Aye, but you shall tell me ! ” was tke quick answer. 

“ Madame, she is — she is ” 

; “Well,— well,— well?” 

“The Countess of Marche!” 

Blanche dropped tke arm of Marie, and sank back 
upon ker pillow ; but, instantly rising, she said in low 
but emphatic tones, again grasping tke arm of tke 
unresisting girl, and gazing steadily into ker eyes: 

“ And do you tell me, Marie Morfontaine, that you 
have seen Adrian de Marigni in tke chamber of tke 
Countess of Marche after midnight ? ” 

“ Madame, I do ! ” was tke stern answer. 

Tor an instant, indignation asserted ascendency. 

A silence of some moments followed. 

“Marie,” at length said tke Countess in low tones, “do 


THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS, 


225 


you know that tlie words you have just spoken to me, 
if spoken elsewhere, would lay your head on the block — 
or mine ? ” 

There was a shudder, but no answer. 

“ Tell me, Marie,” continued the Princess, after ex- 
treme agitation, “tell me, honestly, when did you see 
your lover — in my chamber — at night? Tell me — tell 
me all! ” 

“On the night of the bridal fete of the King of 
England and Isabella ” 

“ Well, well ? ” 

“ I saw Adrian de Marigni leave the spot where you 
now lie and glide quiokly to that door! ” 

With a low groan, the Countess sank back and covered 
her face with her hands. 

The young girl was like a corpse — as colorless — as 
cold. 

“ Marie,” said the Princess, softly, after a pause, again 
rising and grasping the arm ot her companion, “have 
you ever named what — what you that night saw, — to — 
to — another ? ” 

“ To one person, madame, I have,” replied the 
orphan. 

“And but one ? ” 

“ But one.” 

Blanche shuddered. 

“ And that one ? ” 

“ Was Jacques de Molai ” 

“Grand Master of The Temple!” added the Countess. 

Could Marie Morfontaine have foreseen the effect of 


220 


the princess and the heiress. 


her words, roused almost to delirium though, she herself 
was, she would probably, have paused, ere they left her 
lips. 

“Fiend! fiend!” shrieked the Countess of Marche, 
springing with fury from the couch on which she lay, 
and dragging thence the terrified girl by the arm, which 
she grasped until her fingers met in the discolored flesh. 
“ To } T ou, then — to you, wretch ! do I owe the ruin of all 
most dear to me in life 1 To you do I owe almost the 
anguish of the damned I ” 

And quickly producing, from the folds of her white 
dress, a stiletto of most minute and delicate proportions, 
she flung its golden sheath from it upon the floor, and 
raised the glittering and needle*like blade above the 
prostrate girl ! 

This sudden movement laid partially bare her snowy 
and swelling breast. A strange resting-place, that soft, 
warm bosom, for that flashing and fatal steel ! 

For an instant the gleaming weapon hung suspended, 
as by a hair, quivering as if with life over the heart of 
the unresisting, the fainting, the terrified girl ! A change 
passed over the livid face of the infuriated Princess; 
the burning glance of her eye lost its murderous, con- 
centrated, snake-like venom; she flung the keen blue 
blade from her hand. 

“Why should I pollute myself with her blood? ” she 
faintly murmured. “ She knew not what she did. Be- 
sides, her terrible secret dies not with her , it is ho longer 
her own. No, no, my vengeance 'Seeks loftier victims 
than a love-lorn girl. And it shall be a vengeance — oh, 


THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 


227 


it shall be a vengeance, at which, ages hence, men shall 
grow pale! Rise!” she exclaimed, at the same time 
relinquishing her grasp and spurning her companion 
with scorn. 

Almost dead with terror, the fainting girl did as she 
was commanded, and stood cowering before her infuri- 
ated mistress. 

For a moment Blanche of Artois gazed on her with 
black and menacing brow. Then her countenance grad- 
ually softened, and, in tones of touching sorrow, she 
exclaimed, clasping her hands, while tears started to her 
eyes : 

“ Why, oh, why, have you done this, Marie? ” 

The poor orphan did not reply. 

“ Have I not been your friend, Marie? ” continued the 
Countess, sadly; “ have I not protected and loved you? 
Have I ever harmed you ? How have I provoked this 
resentment? How, oh, how, have I deserved such a 
dreadful recompense ? ” 

“ I loved him, too,” faltered Marie, bursting into an 
agony of tears. 

“ You — you loved him /” exclaimed the Countess. 
“ Why, girl, Adrian de Marigni was not a being for you 
to love! As well might the lark seek to mate with the 
eagle, as your spirit with his ! As well might the glow- 
worm aspire to the star, as you to him 1 ” 

“And yet — and yet — I loved him, madame ; and — and 
he loved me, once,” sobbed the orphan. 

“ When you were children,” sharply replied the 
Countess; “you forget he is no longer a child, if you 


2.28 


THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 


are. You should have forgotten jour girlish, fancy for 
a boy playmate. He has forgotten his.” 

“ I know it, madarne,” faltered the girl. “ He loves 
me no more. Yet I love him — I love him dearly, 
despite ” 

* “ Love him! and what has been your love, compared 
with mine? You, a weak, silly, simple child, — I, a 
woman!" cried the Countess. 

Blanche of Artois was but a few years the senior of 
Marie Morfontaine ; but now she seemed an elder sister 
—almost a mother. Such are the effects, on the person, 
of mind and passion. 

“You say you loved him,”- continued the Princess. 
“Well, the test of love is the sacrifice it will make 
for its object. What sacrifice would you have made 
to your love? ” 

“ I would have sacrificed ” began Marie. 

“ Your honor, girl ? ” 

“ I would have yielded him my life, had he asked it,” 
replied Marie, meekly. 

“Your life! — your life!” exclaimed the Countess, 
scornfully. “And yet,” she instantly added, clasping her 
hands, and raising her flashing eyes in agony to Heaven, 
“oh, God ! oh, God I you have sacrificed his I ” 

“ Madame — madame ! ” cried the affrighted girl, grasp- 
ing the Countess in her turn by the arm ; “what do 
you say ? ” 

“ What do I say ? I say that you, wretch, have con- 
signed the noble victim of your pitiful passion to the 
dungeon — to the torture — oh, God, perchance, to a dread- 


229 


THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 

ful death ! Know you not the Templar rule ? Know you 
not the Templar vow ? Know you not the merciless 
severity of that terrible man, to whom you revealed your 
more terrible secret ? Girl, girl, Adrian de Marigni was 
a Templar Knight ! On your accusation, he will be 
stretched on the rack ! Confess, he never will ; and he 
will die in a dungeon ! ” 

“A dungeon! — torture — death! Oh, I dreamed not 
that— I dreamed, not that!” cried the frantic girl. “I 
meant only to part him from you ! ” 

“ Well, be satisfied — you have succeeded!” was the 
bitter, yet sad reply. “We are parted ! ” 

A pause of considerable duration ensued, in which 
neither of the women spake. Both seemed buried in 
thought. The Countess paced the room with hasty 
steps. Marie Morfontaine had sunk upon the couch. 

“Oh, madame,” at length exclaimed Marie, “can 
nothing be done to save him ? ” 

“ Nothing ! ” was the gloomy answer. 

“ What, then, remains for us ? ” 

The Countess stopped in her walk, and replied : 

“ Vengeance ! ” 

“And for me?” 

“ To aid — perhaps.” 

“ Oh, madame, I would die for revenge ! ” earnestly 
exclaimed Marie, springing to her feet, with flashing 
eyes and clasped hands. 

. “ Then live for it. Go, I would be alone ! ” 

And Blanche of Artois sank on the couch. 

And Marie Morfontaine slunk from the chamber. 


230 


THE ARREST. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE ARREST. 

T HE Feast of St. Denis, in the year 1307, fell upon 
Monday, the ninth day of October. 

On the night of that day the King of France was 
in close conclave until a late hour with his privy coun- 
sellors. 

On the three succeeding days, Philip was in constant 
# consultation with Blanche of Artois : and couriers, with 
sealed orders addressed to officers of the crown in all 
parts of the realm, were hourly leaving the Louvre. On 
the night of Thursday, the twelfth, especially, couriers 
were constantly thundering at full speed over the draw- 
bridge of the palace and through the gates of the city, in 
all directions, bearing the last sealed orders to points 
nearest the capital; and some were not despatched 
even until after the morning dawn of the succeeding 
day. 

Friday, the thirteenth of October, was as sweet an 
autumnal day as ever smiled, frostily but cheerily, on 
the gliding waters of the Seine. 

By an understanding, prior and privy, between the 
Grand Master of the Templars and Philip of France, at 
the instance of the latter, that day had been fixed on for 
a visit of the King, accompanied by his high officers and 
all the nobles of his Court, to the Palace of the Temple, 


THF. ARREST. 


231 


that the absurd and abominable charges against the order 
might be abundantly disproved. Late on the previous 
evening orders had been issued by Hugh de Chatillon, 
Grand Constable of France, that all of the gentlemen of 
the Court, as well as all the guard of the palace, and the 
Provost’s guard of Paris, should be under arms at an 
early hour of the following day, in the court of the 
Louvre. This order had been obeyed, and at the hour 
of noon the King, with his Minister, Chancellor and Con- 
fessor, descended to the court, and placing himself at 
the head of a most formidable troop of horse there 
► assembled, marshalled by the Grand Constable, issued 
from the Eastern gate of the Louvre, and ascending the 
street of St. Denis, and emerging into the plains by the 
city gate of the same name, approached the gloomy 
walls of the Temple. 

As the cavalcade drew nigh to that dark pile, from the 
square and massive central tower of which streamed out 
in heavy folds the fearful Beauseant , the drawbridge fell, 
the portcullis rose, the ponderous leaves of the embattled 
gateway swung on their hinges, and the whole body of 
Templars in their white cloaks appeared drawn up to 
receive their royal guest with the venerable Grand 
Master at their head, bearing in his hand the mystic 
abacus. This was the only symbol of authority which 
was to be witnessed. Sword nor dagger, arms nor armor, 
were to be seen in all that peaceful array; although every 
individual in the extended train of the King was armed 
to the teeth — a circumstance of which the Templars 
in their blind confidence seemed to take no note. 


THE ARREST. 


23-2 

Having entered the gateway into a paved and ex- 
tensive court, on all sides environed by massive struct- 
ures, the drawbridge again rose— the portcullis fell, and 
the ponderous gates returned on their groaning hinges. 
Descending from their steeds and delivering them to the 
serving brothers of the order, who, in black costume, 
stood ready to conduct them to the stables, the won- 
dering cavalcade, not one of whom save the King and 
his council knew the purport of the visit, with awe fol- 
lowed in the footsteps of the Templars into the vast and 
magnificent chapel. 

A dim, religious light stealing through the tall and lan- 
ceolated casements pervaded the spacious sanctuary. The 
altar draped in black was lighted by twelve immense 
candles, and was decorated for high mass;' and at its 
foot kneeled priests in cope and stole and deacons in alb 
and dalmatica. At that moment, at a signal from , the 
venerable Master, the Chaplain raised the magnificent 
psalm, “ Gloria in excels is” in which the whole company 
of Templars, some hundreds in number, solemnly joined. 
The effect of this imposing chant, raised by the deep 
voices of this vast choir of soldier-priests, accompanied 
by the organ and echoed from the groined and sculp- 
tured roof of that splendid pile, was grand beyond 
description. 

The chant ceased, and, at that instant, Hugh de 
Chatillon, Grand Constable of France, strode up the- 
aisle, and, drawing his sword, and laying his hand on 
the . shoulder of the Grand Master of the Temple, 
exclaimed: :\ 


THE ARREST. 


233 


“Gentlemen of France, Guards of Paris — in the name 
of your King, I arrest Jacques de Molai, and all his 
order here assembled, for high crimes and misde- 
meanors! To the rescue! to the rescue! France! 
France ! ” 

Ilad a thunderbolt descended into the aisle of that 
consecrated fane, the effect could not have been more 
startling. 

Instantly the sword of Philip flashed in his hand! 
Instantly the swords of all his followers flashed also. 
And instantly rose in that vast hall the awful shout: 
“ Beauseant — Beauseant ! For the Temple ! for the 
Temple ! ” 

But, alas! alas! that terrific battle-cry, which, on an 
hundred bloody fields, had struck panic into a turbaned 
foe, was powerless now — had lost its spell ! In vain did 
the scarred and war-worn veterans strike their unmailed 
hands upon their unarmed sides: they were weaponless ! 
In vain did the heroic De Molai, before God and man, 
solemnly protest against this unheard-of perfidy, and 
appeal to the Templars’ sole tribunal, the See of Rome! 

Unarmed, against twice their number armed to the 
utmost, the struggle of these valiant men, who, with 
their faithful battle-blades in their grasp, would have 
swept ten times the foe now arrayed against them from 
their path, as the chaff on the threshing-floor is swept 
before the wind, was brief and unavailing. Overpow- 
ered by multitudes, yet to the last unyielding, all were 
arrested, loaded with manacles, and plunged into the 
deepest dungeons of their own sacred house. And bitter- 


234 


THE ARREST. 


est of all, as they passed through the court, their glori- 
ous Beauseant no longer floated from its tower; but, in 
its place, rolled out the snowy folds of the Oriflamme of 
France on the autumnal breeze ! 

The arrest at the Temple was complete * That grim 
structure, which all the force of Philip of France would 
have in vain openly assailed, fell in a single hour before 
his fraud. And at that same hour, of that same day, 
throughout all France, every soldier of the Temple, 
wherever found, or however engaged, was in like man- 
ner arrested. 

Immediately upon the arrest of the Templars, the 
Minister proclaimed the Temple to be henceforth a pal- 
ace of the King, and depository of the royal treasures; 
and all of the possessions of the order to be under royal 
seizure and attachment. 

The King, at the head of his council and troops, then 
set out for Paris, and crossing the Pontau Change , at once 
advanced to the Cathedral of Notre Dame, where all 
of its canons and all of the doctors of the University, 
who had been assembled by a mandate they knew not 
whence, for a purpose they knew not what, w r ere sitting 
in solemn conclave, in their sable robes. To this grave 
body, the act of the King in the arrest of the Templars and 
his motives therefor were communicated in detail by the 


* One hundred and forty Knights, and several hundred serving brethren 
and priests, were arrested with I)e Molai at the Temple. Some authorities 
assort that sealed letters were despatched to the royal officers throughout 
the realm as early as September 12th, with orders to be in arms on the 12th 
day of the succeeding month; and, in the night of that day to open the let- 
ters, and act as they commanded. The command was the arrest of the Tem- 
plars. To disarm suspicion, Re Molai, on the very eve of the arrest was 
selected by Philip as one of the four pall-bearers, at the obseuuies of the 
Princess Catharine, wife of the Count of Valois. ’ oosequies oi me 


THE ARREST. 


235 


Grand Inquisitor and his Dominican assistants, William 
du Plessis, and that infamous apostate, the Prior of 
Montfaugon. The royal act and the royal motives for 
that act were, of course, both approved; and a procla- 
mation was sent out from that old church through all 
Paris, summoning all true believers, whether of laity or 
clergy, on pain of penance, to assemble in the gardens of 
the Louvre at the sound of the trumpet, on the second 
day ensuing, to hear detailed “the awful crimes of the 
iniquitous order.” 

The assemblage, at the time and place designated, 
was, of course, immense. Scaffolds had been erected 
for speakers, and from these Imbert, Du Plessis, and the 
apostate Prior, with their accomplices, read to the cred- 
ulous populace a list of one hundred and twenty-seven 
charges of crime against the persecuted Templars, all of 
them as absurd and impossible as they were abominable 
and infamous ; yet each and all sustained by the most 
violent and inflammatory denunciation, and echoed by 
the shouts of the ignorant and superstitious throng.* 

Fortified by this “ verdict of the people,” as he com- 
placently styled it, Philip would have brought the 
imprisoned Templars instantly before his own corrupt 


* The order of the Temple was charged, among other things, with having 
been founded on the plan of the Ismailites, or, Assassins, a secret society or 
the East,— from a pretended identity of costume and secret doctrine. The 
Ismailites wore a white robe with a red girdle, and the Templars wore a 
white cloak with a red cross, and both societies were secret ! And here, it is 
probable, “all likeness ends between the pair.” It is asserted, indeed, that 
m 1228, the Templars betrayed the Emperor Frederick II. to the Egyptian 
Sultan ; but, if so, the Moslem taught them a bitter lesson of faith by refusing 
to avail himself of their perfidy; and, if so, no wonder that the indignant 
Emperor wrote of them, about the same, “ The haughty religion of the Tem- 
ple waxes wanton.”— “We have the failings of men,” said Almeric de Vil- 
liers,’ “but to have been guilty of the crimes imputed to us we must have 
been fiends.” 

15 


236 


THE ARREST. 


tribunals for final judgment and doom; but be was 
warned by the canons and doctors that no secular court 
could take ultimate cognizance of the crime of heres}^ 
of which the soldiers of the Temple were accused ; that 
the Templars, as a religious-military order, confirmed 
by the Holy See, were exempt from all civil jurisdiction; 
and that, as for their possessions, they could only be 
appropriated to the benefit of the Church, and the pur- 
poses of their orignal donation. 

This decision, as may be inferred, was not very wel- 
come to the Kin£, who had felicitated himself on the 
spoils of the fated order, as well as on the contemplated 
gratification of a deadly revenge; but he immediately 
issued an edict for the interrogation of the prisoners by 
William of Paris, and his familiars in presence of the 
high officers of the crown. 

And thus were the Templar Knights of France com- 
mitted to the tender mercies of the Inquisition ! 

“The fiat of Philip,” says the historian, “ had gone 
forth at that season of the year, when the cell of the 
captive is rendered doubly dreadful by the rigor of the 
winter. The sufferers were deprived of the habit of 
their order, and of the ri tes and comforts of the Church ; 
only the barest necessaries of life were allowed them : 
and those who refused to plead guilty were subjected 
to every species of torture.”* Shrieks and groans re- 
sounded in all the prisons of France’ their tormentors 
noted down not only their words, but even their tears 


* Raynouard— Monument HiMortqu f> Rnlatif s a la Condamnation des 
Cnevaliers du Temple et V abolition de leur Order . 


THE ARREST. 


237 


and sighs, and the spirit of many a knight, whom the 
terrors of Paynim war had failed to subdue, quailed at 
the stake and on the rack. Yet that number was but 
small, and the large proportion endured the Question 
with as much martyr-heroism as they had ever braved a 
nobler doom on the ensanguined field. 

In Paris the dungeons and oubliettes and in paces of 
the Louvre, the two Cliatelets, the Palace of Justice, 
and of the Temple itself were all in special requisition 
to afford imprisonment to the persecuted Templars, 
among whom arrested at the Temple were the Norman 
brothers, Walter and Philip de Launai. 

As for Jacques de Molai, the aged Grand Master, he 
was committed, together with Hugh de Peralde, Grand 
Prior of France, Pierre de Villars, Grand Prior of Acqui- 
taine, (Philip’s Minister of Finance,) and Guy, Grand 
Prior of Normandy, brother to the Dauphin of Auvergne 
and Viennois, Sovereign Prince of Dauphiny, and some 
other dignitaries of the fated order, to the dungeons of 
Chinon. " , . 


238 


THE CASTLE OF CHINON. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE CASTLE OF CHINON, 

X the right bank of the Yienne, near its conflu- 



ence with the sparkling waters of the Loire, in 


the ancient Province of Limousin,* once stood a castle, 
which, by its ruins, still existing, is proven to have been 
one of the most perfect of all the masterpieces of feudal 
architecture. 

Its site was a lofty crag, overlooking the neighboring 
country lor many a mile around, which, for a thousand 
years it held in awe : and, at its base, was a small ham- 
let sheltered by surrounding hills. Like other structures 
of the age, the Castle of Chinon had its dungeons and its 
oubliettes , — its fathomless wells descending like tunnels, 
section of horror below section, — zone below zone, — into 
the very bowels of the earth. 

It had, also, its winding stairways, practised through 
the depths of the massive masonry, and its secret pas- 
sages, and its subterranean galleries. One of these latter 
is said to have gone down through the walls of the castle, 
down through the solid crag on which the castle sat, 
down below the level of the bed of the Yienne. Thence, 
beneath the bed of that stream, it continued to the opposite 
bank, and, pursuing its midnight course, finally emerged 
within the walls of a convent in sight of the castle, when 


* Now Touraim in the Department of Indre et Loire. 


THE CASTLE OF CHINOS. 


239 


descending into tlie bowels of the earth, it pnrsued its 
tenebrous and tortuous route to the Castle of Saumur, a 
dozen miles distant. 

Another subterranean passage is said to have united 
the Tower of Argenton with the Maison Koberdieu, — the 
residence of the lovely Agnes Sorrel, when Chi non was a 
palace of Charles the Seventh. 

This castle is called the French Windsor of the Nor- 
man Kings, as the Abbey of Fonteuraud, some seven 
miles distant on the south, was their Westminster. It 
was a favorite spot with Henry the Second of England, 
and witnessed his loves with the beautiful Rosamond Clif- 
ford. It witnessed, also, his fearful death in 1189, when 
he expired with a curse on his quivering lips against 
his unnatural sons ; and it witnessed the death of the 
heir to his crown, Richard Coeur de Lion , ten years 
afterwards, when the form of the valorous son was laid 
at the feet of the father in the old aisle of Fonteu- 
raud. 

Chinon witnessed, also, the loves of Francis the First 
of France and the fair “ Ferronilre ,” as well as those 
of Charles the Seventh and Agnes Sorrel, as intimated. 
And here it was that the chivalric Maid of Orleans, in- 
troduced into that Prince’s presence, selected him from 
among all his Nobles as the true King, notwithstanding 
his disguise, and announced to him her holy mission. 

Chinon, too, was a favorite residence of Louis the 
Eleventh of France ; and it was here he proposed to the 
Count of Chabannes, the Minister of his father, that 
parent’s assassination, though only that the unnatural 


240 


THE CASTLE OF CHINON. 


design might to that parent’s horror be revealed. The 
fearful oubliettes , of which remains yet exist, are said to 
have been sunk immediately beneath that monarch’s 
chosen apartments. 

The view from the battlements of the lofty towers of 
the Castle of Chi non is described as most extensive and 
beautiful, — embracing an immense extent of country, 
through which flow the bright waters of the Loire and 
Vienne, with the white walls of convents and chateaux 
rising among the forests on their banks. 

Such was the proud Castle of Cliinon, when it became 
the prison of the Grand Officers of the Temple in 
France. 

Into the dungeons of this fearful fortilace were these 
veterans of the cross, who had so often done bloody bat- 
tle for Christendom upon a foreign shore, now plunged, 
and loaded with chains. 

It was on the night of the sixth day of his imprison- 
ment in the dungeons of Chi non, that Jacques de Molai 
was aroused from a troubled slumber, by the pressure 
of a hand upon his shoulder, and the glare of a lamp 
in his face. Starting from his recumbent position, as 
well as his manacles would permit, he fixed his search- 
ing eye upon the intruder. But the light of the lantern 
was so managed that, while its beams were thrown in 
full gush upon his own features, those of the person who 
held it remained completely in shadow. Of the shape 
he could only define the irregular outline of a human 
figure, robed in the black gown of a monk of St. 
Dominic, with the ample cowl drawn closely over the 


THE CASTLE OF CHINON". 


241 


head; and, of the face, he could perceive only two 
blazing orbs, which gleamed forth in the darkness like 
flame from perforations in a fiery furnace. 

For some moments the silence was unbroken. A 
horrible thought flashed through the brain of the 
prisoner. He beheld before him his executioner! Such 
midnight murders were of constant occurrence in the 
Dark Ages, when a foe was too powerful, or too popular, 
or too innocent for the public scaffold; and dungeon 
walls were deep enough to absorb every dying groan, 
and oubliettes were no misnomers, — they were, indeed, 
“chambers of oblivion /” . 

For an instant the prisoner’s heart sank within him. 
To die by the assassin’s dagger at midnight, in the 
depths of a dungeon, loaded with fetters, his fate forever 
unknown, yet innocent of even a thought of crime — 
horrible! horrible! Oh, for the wild, wide, scorching 
desert, once more, on his war-horse, with his battle- 
brand in his hand, and clouds of Paynim foes before 
him, like their own clouds of locusts! But this was a 
mad thought. It was but a moment indulged, and then 
that brave old man was as a bronze effigy, on some 
marble tomb. 

“Methinks, my friend,” said de Molai, calmly, “that 
you have chosen a somewhat unusual hour to visit the 
inmate of a dungeon. It is true, night and day are very 
much the same down here, but I have not yet been an 
occupant of the place long enough not to know that it 
is now after midnight. What do you here at this hour? ” 
asked the old man, mildly, after pausing for a reply. 


242 


THE CASTLE OF CHINON. 


There was no answer, but the burning orbs like flick- 
ering flames still rested on his face. 

“ If you are an officer of the castle — the Governor, or 
one of the warders,” continued de Molai, calmly, “it is 
strange you are here at an hour like this; and it is still 
more strange that I heard not the clash of chains, and 
the thunder of bolts, which invariably herald one’s 
approach. I must have slumbered very soundly. I 
slept not thus in Palestine.” 

There was still no answer. 

“ Oh, it’s all very well,” continued the old Templar, 
carelessly. ‘‘If you do not choose to announce vour 
errand, Sir Warder, I am, of course, quite unable to 
compel you. But I can address myself to sleep again, 
which, methinks, may prove somewhat more profitable 
than addressing myself to you.” 

And the old knight seemed disposing himself again 
in a sleeping posture, upon his lreap of straw. 

'"“I am no warder, Jacques de Molai!” 

“Ila! a woman's voice!” cried the Grand Master in 
astonishment. “ A woman here f ” 

“Aye, sir — a woman here! ” 

“And why?” 

“ To save you, — if you will be saved.” 

The old man shook his head and smiled. 

“No woman’s will can save Jacques de Molai!” 

There was a low laugh beneath the hood. 

“ And if you were told that a woman’s will had filled 
the dungeons of all France with your order, and com- 
mitted you, their chief, to this ? ” 


THE CASTLE OF CHIXONY 


243 


“ I should say it was a lie ! ” was the quick, stern answer. 

“And yet, it is even so!” proudly rejoined the 
unknown. 

De Molai gazed with angry incredulousness on one he 
deemed a false and presumptuous boaster. 

“ But I am not here to satisfy doubts, nor to over- 
come them with arguments,” she continued. “My pur- 
pose is other, higher. Jacques de Molai, do you know 
that your doom is sealed?” 

“ I had hoped, madame ” 

“ Do you know that your order is to be swept from 
the earth ? ” 

“Holy St. Bernard ! ” ejaculated the old man, clasping 
his ironed hands. 

“Do you know that each Templar in France is to be 
stretched upon the rack, with you, their chief, at their 
head; and, if they confess the horrible guilt of which 
they are accused, they are, in mercy, to be burned at the 
stake; and, if not, they are to perish by extremest tor- 
ture of the Question Chamber? Do you know this?” 

The old man sank back upon his heap of straw, and 
covered his face with his hands, while a low groan 
mingled with the sullen clank of his fetters. 

For himself he could endure torture — the stake ; he 
was old, and must soon die at the best ; but his beloved 
order — his beloved sons, as he called its companions — 
for them his heart agonized and bled. 

For some moments the Grand Master remained silent, 
as if in thought, during which his unwelcome visitor 
fixed upon him, in equal silence, her burning regard. 

15 


244 


THE CASTLE OF CHINOIV. 


“ Bat, no —no — no — tills cannot be ,' 7 lie at length 
exclaimed. “They will not do that ! They dare not ! ” 
he added in tones of menace. “ We have appealed to 
Rome ! Let oar persecutors beware of Rome’s thun- 
der ! Madame, madame ! 77 cried De Molai, “ who are 
you? Why are you here? If you think to trifle with 
the natural tremors of an aged man, laden with irons 
and immured in a dungeon, you mistake that man l 
Who are you, madame? 77 

There was no reply, but the unknown drew slowly 
from her delicate hand a massive signet ring, and held it 
up in the light of the lantern before the prisoner's eyes. 

“The royal seal of France ! 77 despairingly murmured 
the old man. “ What would you , madame ? 17 he asked. 

“ Grand Master of the Templars,, what would you % 77 
was the rejoinder. 

“ The salvation of my beloved order ! ” fervently 
ejaculated the old chieftain, raising his eyes with his 
clasped hands to Heaven. 

“I am here to save that order , 77 said the other. 

“ Ha ! 77 cried de Molai. 

“I am here to deliver you, and, with you, all your 
knights, from the dungeon and the rack, and to reinstate 
you in all your ancient affluence, rank, immunities, and 
powers ; and to add to them, if possible, ten-fold.” 

“ A dream ! 77 exclaimed the old Templar, pressing his 
broad palm to his brow. 

“No, Jacques de Molai, this is no dream!” was the 
reply. “ The great seal of France should assure you 
that my words are not idle fancies.” 


THE CASTLE OF CHINOS. 


245 


“And the condition of this salvation ? ” asked he. 

“ Know you Adrian de Marigni, Count Le Portier? ” 
asked the unknown. 

The old man was silent. 

“ Know you Blanche of Artois, Countess of Marche ? ” 
repeated the lady. 

The old man was still silent. 

“Behold her here ! ” exclaimed the unknown, throwing' 
back the hood of her priestly robe, and revealing a face 
whose pale loveliness, as lighted up by the full gleam of 
the lantern, now turned towards it, contrasted strangely 
with the damp dungeon walls around. 

With a groan of despair Jacques de Molai sank back 
on the straw of his pallet, and covered his face with his 
hands. In an instant he comprehended all ! All — alas, 
for him ! — was revealed. 

“Jacques de Molai,” resumed the Princess, in tones of 
intense solemnity, “hear me! When first you heard a 
woman’s voice, at midnight in your dungeon, you were 
amazed. But, when you learn that woman is the 
Countess of Marche, you are amazed no more. Why ? 
Because, Jacques de Molai, you happen to know of that 
proud and powerful, yet most unhappy woman, a dread- 
ful secret! Because you, chief of the Templars, chance 
to know that this woman’s lover is a companion of your 
order, and, therefore, amenable to its powerful Rule. 
Chief of the Templars, Blanche of Artois is here to 
crave of you the life and liberty of that lover, and, in 
exchange, to give you your own, and those of all your 
knights ! ” 


2 46 THE CASTLE OF CHINON. 

But de Molai spake not. 

“Doubt not that all I have promised shall be fulfilled.,” 
she continued. “ My influence with the King of France 
is never exerted vainly ; and his power over Clement 
Fifth. — in this matter at least, — -is resistless.” 

Do Molai uttered a groan. His last hope failed! 
Borne deserted the Temple ! 

“Unknown and unsuspected have I escaped from the 
Louvre, from Paris, and sped to this distant fortress. 
Unknown and unsuspected by all within these walls am 
I here; unknown and unsuspected, when my mission is 
accomplished, I am without these walls, and again am 
found within the Palace of the Louvre, or, rather within 
the Palace of the Temple, for even there now doth Philip 
hold his Court ! ” 

Again the old man groaned. 

Alas! for the desecrated sanctuary! Alas! for that 
holy and ancient house ! 

“ Jacques de Molai,” continued the Countess, after a 
pause, “ I am here to demand my lover, Adrian de 
Marigni. I. do not ask if you know where he is : I know 
you do, though /, alas ! do not ! Vainly, in secret and 
alone, have I searched every dungeon, and oubliette , and 
cell of that awful pile, which, through my influence, for 
that very end, was captured, and its wry penetralia laid 
open to the eye. I do not ask if my lover be iii ycur 
power; of that, too, am I sure — if, indeed, he yet' 
remains in the power of man. But I ask you if he lives ? 
I ask of you the name of his dungeon ! I ask of you 
his liberty and his life ! ” 


THE CASTLE OF CHITON". 247 

De Molai spake not a word, but covered liis face with 
his hands. 

“Oh, sir, I entreat — I implore you, answer me!” 
wildly ejaculated the Countess, sinking on her knees 
upon the damp dungeon floor beside that stern and 
manacled man, and raising her clasped and snowy hands 
and streaming eyes before him. “In the name of all 
that is most dear to you — in the name of your beloved 
order — in the name of the holy St, Bernard, its patron 
saint — in the name of Godfrey Adelman, its pious 
founder — in the name of the Holy Sepulchre, for the 
defence of which it was instituted, and for which, like 
water, it has, for two centuries, poured out its blood — in 
the name of her who bore you, or of her you once loved 
— I beseech you, hear me! Give me back my Adrian! 
restore me my lover! spare his life! forgive his offence ! 
and, oh, by the Holy Mother, I here swear to you, never 
; — never shall he thus offend again! I ask him not for 
myself! I ask only his life and his liberty, forever to be 
consecrated to your noble order ! I yield his love — his 
person — his presence — all — all most precious to me ! I 
know — I know his crime against the pure Buie of your 
order has been terrible ! But he was not in fault! indeed 
it was not he! I — I alone am guilty for the violation 
of that vow — of his vow as well as my own!” The pale 
face of the Countess suddenly flushed, and she covered 
it with her hands. “ He sought not me, it was I that 
sought him ! It was I, too, who made him a companion 
of your order! Alas! I knew not what I did! I 
meant only to prevent his marriage to another. And 


248 THE CASTLE OF CHIHON. 

yet, having imposed on him those terrible vows, it was 
I, wretcli ! who tempted him to their violation ! Oh, if 
there must be a sacrifice to your insulted Eule, accept 
me ! If there must needs be penalty for crime, on me — 
on me let it fall ! He is innocent ! I only am guilty ! 
Oh, sir, be merciful — be merciful ! Give me back my 
lover I ” 

Breathless, the Countess paused. The chief of the 
Templars spake not. 

“It must, I know, seem a strange thing to you,” 
resumed Blanche, with a wild, sad smile, “ that the 
proud Countess of Marche should thus be kneeling beside 
you — a doomed and manacled man, — on the mouldy straw 
of a damp dungeon, at midnight, alone, pouring out a 
confession which has never left her lips before, no, not 
even to her God ; and which, if only whispered beyond 
these rugged walls, would consign her head to the block, 
and her name to infamy ! It is strange* — it is strange I 
And all this should assure you how mad and desperate 
this wretched heart of mine must be, if not ” — and she 
pressed her white hand to her forehead — “ if not my 
brain, also. But men never know, and will not believe, 
all a woman will dare for one she loves. And yet, were 
not all this even so, I would entrust to you , terrible man, 
a secret which I would not entrust to the dread vows of 
the confessional itself! Your vows are more dread than 
those — your obligations are more awful ! But Adrian — 
Adrian, tell me,” and she pressed her delicate fingers 
earnestly on the iron hand of the Templar, knitted 
together of bone, and sinew, and muscle, and denuded of 


THE CASTLE OF CHI NON. 


249 


all flesh, “ tell, oh, tell me,” she wildly implored, “ where 
— where — where is my Adrian? ” 

The soldier-monk answered to this touching, heart- 
broken entreaty not a word. 

“ Tell me — is he yet in Paris ? in France ? in Europe ? 
in a Christian land ? ” 

Still there was no answer. 

M Is he imprisoned, or is he free? ” 

There was no reply. The Templar lay with his hands 
over his face like the marble effigies on some crusaders 
tomb. 

“ Tell me ! — tell me ! — tell me ! ” almost shrieked the 
frantic Princess ; “ does Adrian de Marigni yet live ? ” 
The wild words fell back from the damp and dreary 
walls like lead upon the ear. There were no echoes 
there to awaken. 

For some moments Blanche of Artois remained on her 
knees, the image of supplication, beside the prostrate 
and motionless Templar. Then slowly upon her mind 
seemed to creep a dreadful suspicion — a fearful thought; 
and, as that wild presentiment passed her brain, the soft 
expression of entreaty faded away from her beautiful 
face; and, in its stead, there gathered a blackness on the 
brow, an intense fierceness on the compressed lip, and in 
the eye concentrated a lustre like the glare of a maniac. 

Slowly, sternly, firmly, she arose to her feet, and draw- 
ing around her the coarse serge, which, in her agitation, 
had fallen from her snowy shoulders, and drawing over 
her face the Dominican hood, she took up the lantern 
and quietly turned to depart. 


250 


THE CASTLE OF CHINON. 


Retreating into the shadows at the extremity of tlie 
duugeon, her form was lost in gloom. Then raising the 
lantern and suffering its full beams to pour upon her 
livid, yet lovely face, and her blazing eyes, she said in 
low and solemn tones : 

“Jacques de Molai, farewell! Thou bast sealed thine 
own doom ! In the dungeon — on the rack — at the stake 
— amid the ruins of thine order and all most dear to 
: thee, thou wilt remember Blanche of Artois ! ” 

The voice ceased — the light went out — a sudden blast 
of fresh air, as from a subterranean passage, rushed into 
the cell — a rumbling like thunder shook the vault ! 
Jacques de Molai was alone ! 


THE COMPROMISE. 


251 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE COMPROMISE. 



HE arrest of the Knights Templar by Philip of 


JL France sent a thrill of horror throughout all 
Christendom ! 

In the first burst of passion, the Sovereign Pontiff 
despatched, as his Legates, from Avignon to Paris, Car- 
dinals De Prato and Gentil de Montesiore, with ample 
powers, at once to remove William of Paris, Inquisitor- 
General from office, and to inhibit the Prelates of France 
from all cognizance or authority in the affairs of the 
Templars. The proceedings already had, he declared a 
guilty encroachment on the rights of the Papal See. To 
the King, also, he addressed a mandate, condemning in 
severe terms the presumption of arresting the members 
of an order, whose only Supreme was the Pope; and bid- 
ding him, at once, surrender into the jurisdiction of his 
Legates, the persons and the effects of his children, the 
Templar Knights. 

Prior to the arrest of the Templars in France, Philip, 
at the instance of the Countess of Marche, had sent a 
priest named Bernard Peletus, bearing letters addressed 
to Edward of England, stimulating him to make the 
same arrest, on the same day, of all members of the 
order found within his realm. Letters were also ad- 
dressed, by the same advice, at the same time and to 


16 


252 


THE COMPROMISE. 


the same end, to Ferdinand of Aragon, and Henry of 
Luxembourg, Emperor of Germany ; likewise to the 
sovereigns of Castile, Portugal and Sicily. 

Before the Court and Council of England, the charges 
against the Templars were at once laid; and, while the 
utmost astonishment was expressed, investigation was 
furnished. Edward, however, immediately wrote to the 
Kings of Portugal, Castile, Aragon, and Sicily, and, also, 
to the Emperor and the Pope, imploring them to lend 
no credence to the malicious and infamous calumnies 
against the Knights of the Bed Cross, who had been the 
steadfast allies of his throne, and the friends of the 
liberties of his people, before the day, and since the day 
as well as on the day, when Almeric of St. Maur, Grand 
Prior of England, had stood on the field of Bunny Mead, 
and demanded of King John the Magna Charta — 
Almeric, that illustrious knight, who passed his last 
hours in the Grand Temple of his order in London ; and, 
with all the pomp and prestige of the period was laid 
to his rest by Templar hands, with Templar rites, in 
the Temple church.* 

But, subsequently to this, the fickle Edward issued 
an order dated on the Feast of Epiphany, December 15, 
1308, for the summoning of all his sheriffs throughout 
the realm, to assemble on a certain day, at certain places ; 
and, on that day, at those places, the sheriffs thus assem- 
bled, were sworn, suddenly to execute a certain sealed 
order, then and there to be delivered, so soon as opened. 

*“Tlie Templars,” says Addison, “were always buried in the habit of 
their order, a long white mantle with a red cross over the left breast; 
and thus are they represented in the marble etligies on their tombs.” 


THE COMPROMISE. 


253 


This order was the arrest of the Templars ; and, at the 
same hour, on the same day, throughout England, Scot- 
land, Ireland and W ales, all members of that order were 
thrown into prison on charge of apostacy to the altar, 
and treason to the throne ; and their vast estates were 
attached! For months they remained in durance in 
various castles and towers. At length, October, 1309, 
by mandate of the Archbishop of Canterbury, forty-seven 
of the noblest of the order were brought from the Tower 
before Ecclesiastical Courts at London, York and Lin- 
coln, over which presided the Bishop of London and 
the Envoys of the Pope. Against their bold plea of 
innocence nothing was proven ; on the contrary, most 
irrefutable evidence of their irreproachable character 
and conduct was adduced from the lips of clergy, as well 
as laity. But they were not released, and, shortly after, 
came from the Court of France suggestions of Torture , 
to elicit confession ! But, when the Archbishop of York 
dared to ask his Chapter whether torture, — hitherto 
unheard of on the soil of England, — might be used 
against the Templars, inquiring if a Machine might be 
sent for from abroad, as there was not one in the land, — 
he received a reply which silenced the demand ! 

After three years of close incarceration, however, most 
of the Templars made a vague renunciation of heresy 
and erroneous opinions, and were sent to various monas- 
teries, with a pittance from their immense revenues for 
their support ; and, finally, their estates were yielded to 
the Knights of St. John * But, no menaces, no promises, 


* In 1323. 


'254 


THE COMPROMISE. 


no dungeons, no sufferings, could move William de la 
Moore, the Grand Prior of England ; and he, with three 
other heroic men, boldly and loudly proclaimed their 
innocency, and that of their order to the very last. 

The whole number of Templars arrested by Edward 
seems to have been but two hundred and fifty. Of 
these, thirty were seized in Ireland, and but two in Scot- 
land. In England, the order had some seven or eight 
Preceptories, of which the celebrated Temple at London 
was chief. The estates of the Templars in England were, 
however, immense in every county, and far exceeded 
those of the Hospitalers; while the Prior of London 
was first baron of the realm in the House of Lords. 

The King of Aragon, James the Second, was earnestly 
. pressed by the Court of France to follow in the steps of 
Philip. But his unchanging answer was this. “First 
convince me of the guilt of the Templars, — then, I will 
provide a penalty.” Forced by the violence of the 
people, the Templars retired for safety to the fortresses 
erected by themselves to defend the country against the 
Moors. Thence they petitioned the Holy Father to 
protect his children against the infamous charges falsely 
preferred against them, insisting on the purity of their 
faith, in defence of which they had so often shed their 
best blood ; that multitudes of Templars were even then 
.captive to the Moors, who, on abjuration of their faith, 
would, at once, be liberated; and thus the same men 
were consigned to torture by Infidels as Christians, and 
by Christians as Infidels; and, finally, they entreated 
-either the protection of Home, or, to be permitted to 


THE COMPROMISE. 


255 


protect themselves, as they ever had done, and, in fair 
field to make good their cause, with their own right 
hands. To all this Clement replied not ; but the King 
of Aragon, having received at his first summons one of 
their fortresses in his realm, and being desired only to 
afford them a just trial, took the order in his kingdom 
under his royal protection. He, also, forbade all insult 
or injury to the Templars, under severe penalty, — an- 
nouncing to all comers his readiness to receive charges 
against the order; but, warning them that if those 
charges were . not sustained, the accusers themselves 
should suffer the tortures they invoked. 

But James of Aragon was not, in the end, proof 
against the omnipotent influence that emanated from the 
Louvre any more than was Edward of England ; and 
despite all his protestations and covenants, he, at length, 
arrested the knights of the persecuted order wherever 
they could be found, and, having detained them in 
various castles they had themselves erected against his 
foes, in long imprisonment, at last resigned them for 
trial by the Bishop of Valencia, upon which trial they 
shared the sentence of their brethren in England and 
France. 

In Germany, when the mandate for abolishing the 
order was about to be read by the Archbishop of 
Metey to his assembled Chapter, suddenly into that 
priestly conclave strode Wallgruffer, Count Salvage, 
Grand Prior of the Temple of the Empire, followed by 
twenty knights, in full costume of the order, and, like 
himself, fully armed, — who, in stern tones, appealed from 


256 


THE COMPROMISE. 


all mandates whatsoever, whether of Pope or potentate, 
to the General Council announced to be li olden at 
■Vienne. The appeal was recorded, and, after long and 
tedious examination, the Templars of that province 
were ultimately pronounced innocent of the charges 
preferred.* But their estates were never restored them, 
and their order was finally blended with those of the 
Knights of Malta and the Teutonic Knights, — the white 
costume of the Soldiers of the Temple being exchanged 
for the black habit of those of St. John. 

Thus was the influence of the Louvre felt by Henry 
of Luxembourg, hero though he was, not less than by 
every other sovereign of Europe! 

In a similar manner were the charges preferred by the 
King of France entertained by the sovereigns of Portu- 
gal, Castile and Sicily, — at first, with amazement, incre- 
dulity, and indignation; but, at last, through that potent- 
influence which none seemed able to resist, in each of 
these kingdoms, as in England, Aragon and Germany, the 
■doomed and dreaded order was suppressed. In Portugal 
the persecution was less severe than in any other king- 
dom of the Continent ; but there, for the title “ Soldiers 
of the Temple,” was substituted “ Soldiers of Christ,” 
under which name the order now exists. 

As may be inferred, the stern and indignant mandate 
of Clement, arresting the arbitrary proceedings against 
the Templars in France, was not very quietly received by 
a man like Philip the Fourth. At first, he utterly refused 


* At Mentz the order was pronounced innocent. The Wildgraf Frederic 
Preceptor on the Ilhine, offered to undergo the ordeal of red-hot iron ! 


THE COMPROMISE. 


257 


to receive the Apostolic Legates ; but, after a long and 
close consultation with the Countess of Marche, he 
vouchsafed them an audience, in which he communi- 
cated a message for immediate transmission to their 
master and his. 

In this communication, Philip boldly declared that 
he had done nothing in the matter of the Templars but 
at the bidding of an officer of the Papal Court, — Wil- 
liam Imbert, Grand Inquisitor at Paris, and that the sus- 
pension of that monk from his powers, because of his zeal 
for the church, tended dangerously to fortify the corrupt 
and impious order he had assailed. As for the Prelates 
of France, who had received their power in direct suc- 
cession from St. Peter, and who, in conjunction with the 
Bishop of Rome, were commissioned to shield God’s 
Church from heresy, they, he declared, viewed the inhi- 
bition of the Holy Father of the discharge of their 
assumed functions as an undisguised infringement upon 
their spiritual franchise, and betrayed an evident disposi- 
tion to disregard the mandate. For himself, his corona- 
tion oath to God had record in Heaven, and no earthly 
power could force him to disregard it. That the 
Templar Knights were guilty of the corrupt and flagi- 
titous practices of the which they were charged, was, he 
said, by many of them, confessed ; — that God detested 
those who were neither hot nor cold, was a tej^iet of 
Catholic faith ; that not to punish crime promptly was 
partially to approve it; — and, that this was not the first 
time France had been in conflict with Rome, because the 
Pontiff usurped the powers of the Prince, though it 


25 % THE COMPROMISE. 

might be the last, and the issue of the contest with 
Clement F.fth might prove not unlike to that with 
Boniface Eighth. Finally, in unrnistakeable proof of the 
piety and purity of his own motives, as well as of a 
disposition in all things to obey his Holy Father, the 
King announced his surrender to the Papal ministers of 
the persons and property of the Templars, provided 
always, that they should still remain under the control 
of his own Provosts and Police, and in the dungeons of 
his own prisons ! 

Immediately on the despatch of this missive, Philip 
issued writs convening the States of his Kingdom, at the 
city of Tours, on the Loire, in the Orleannois, to confer 
on matters of vast moment to the realm, on the ensuing 
Tenth of May. 

To Philip the Fourth did France owe the institution 
of Parliament and the more frequent convention of 
States General than had ever before been known. To 
him, also, despite all his own despotic acts, does Paris 
owe the establishment of her most efficacious tribunals 
for the administration of justice, and the formation of 
her most respectable body of magistrates. By the 62nd 
Article of an edict of March 18th, 1303, he gave Parlia- 
ments to France, one of which was prescribed to be 
holden in Paris twice every year. At first, the officers 
and members were of his own nomination. They were 
removed by him at pleasure, and from him they received 
the remuneration for their services; while they em- 
bodied all the lords spiritual and temporal of the realm. 


THE COMPROMISE." 2*59 

Subsequently clerks and counsellors learned in the 
law were admitted.* 

At Tours, the assemblage of delegates was unusually 
large. The King presided in person, and William de 
Nogaret, the Lord Chancellor, detailed, at length, all the 
charges preferred against the Templars, and the proofs 
collected in their support. The result was, of course, 
inevitable, — unqualified approval of the past, and equally 
unqualified warrant for the future, of all royal acts. 

Sustained by this triumph, Philip repaired at once 
from the city of Tours, with all his ministry, to the 
city of Poitiers, where now was abiding the Apostolic 
See. 

The interview between Clement Fifth and Philip 
Fourth, which immediately ensued, was of a character 
tempestuous in the extreme. But both men were too 
worldly-wise to sacrifice interest to feeling. Passion- 
soon, therefore, yielded to policy,, and the Templar 
Knights were, of course, the sacrifice to the compromise. 
Each party, alike, and equally, dreaded a contest, such as 
had convulsed Europe during the variance between the 
King of France and Boniface Eighth, and so greatly 
shaken the power of both. Clement was warned by the 
dreadful doom of Boniface, and Philip remembered the 
terrible significance of Papal anathema, — that “thunder- 
bolt which shook thrones and affrighted nations,” — 
which stripped the altar of its reliques, and the 
churches of their bells, — which interdicted all sacra- 

* In other parts of Europe, human rights seem to have been somewhat 
acknowledged, at this era, as well as in France. The Swiss Republics date 
from 1307. 


260 


THE COMPROMISE. 


ments, save that of baptism to the infant, and the viat- 
icum to the dying; — which proclaimed perpetual Lent, — 
denied all indulgence, forbade all the formalities and all 
the consolations of religious faith, and commanded, on 
pain of eternal perdition, the disobedience of all the laws 
of the banned monarch, by all Christian souls within his 
realm that hoped for Heaven! 

The result of the interview between the Pontiff and 
the Prince was this, — a compromise to the effect that the 
Templar Knights should remain in the custody of 
Philip, in the name of the Papal See, the Prelates of 
Prance, and the Holy Catholic Church: that, in event of 
final confirmation of the charges, and the consequent 
abolition of the order, its immense estates should be 
devoted to the recovery of the Holy Land, — meanwhile 
being consigned to agents of the Papal See; and, finally, 
that William Imbert and the Inquisitor of Paris should 
again resume those functions in the examination of the 
Templars, which had been so abruptly suspended. 

To the unhappy captives this compromise brought no 
relief. Their persons remained under the custody and 
control of Philip, while their property was committed by 
the Pope to the charge of William Pidoue and Rene 
Bourdon, two of the officers of the Louvre Household. 


THE GAUNTLET. 


261 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


THE GAUNTLET. 



EARILY — wearily whiled away the wintry 


months in the gloomy dungeons of Chinon. 


Since the strange visit of Blanche of Artois, the venera- 
ble Grand Master of the Templars was, indeed, convinced 
that his own doom, as well as the doom of his beloved 
order, was sealed. He was convinced, too, that h.s 
doom would be inflicted through the agency and by the 
influence of the powerful and beautiful woman, who had 
so mysteriously come to him at midnight, and so mys- 
teriously disappeared. He was convinced, during bis 
long hours of meditation, — and he had many such, and 
ample space for many more, — that Blanche of Artois 
could, indeed, accomplish all she promised — but the 
conditions of that promise! — not for a single instant could 
they be entertained. His life — liberty — all most prized 
— gladly — gladly would that noble old man have yielded, 
as a propitiatory sacrifice for his beloved order; but 
there were upon him vows more sacred than life, or even 
the salvation of that order itself! True, he was the de- 
pository of a fearful secret, a secret, which, once divulged, 
even in the depths of his dungeon, or on the rack of the 
Question Chamber of Chinon, would, as inevitably as 
instantly, crush the guilty woman whose insatiate ven- 
geance, like a sleuth-hound tracked him up; and even 


262 


THE GAUNTLET. 


give back, perhaps, to himself and his knights their lib- 
erties. But, alas! that secret was too closely wedded to 
those vows for them to be parted. The one rendered 
inviolate the other.- The insurance was mutual^and sure. 

To different dungeons in the Castle of Chinon were 
consigned the different officers of the Temple,— the 
Grand Master of the Order and the Grand Priors of 
Prance, Normandy and Acquitaine. But Be Molai 
Shortly discovered that the warder assigned to his dun- 
.geon had been a serving brother of the Temple, and 
through his aid, he shortly established a connection with 
his fellow sufferers, by the “omnific cipher” of the 
order, — thus communicating and receiving intelligence 
and opinion, as touching the welfare of their cause. 

Winter had passed away and been succeeded by the 
spring ; this, too, had passed, and been followed by the 
soft summer; and, still, the rigorous captivity of the 
Templar chiefs in the dungeons of Chinon continued, 
without hope of alleviation or close. 

At length, on the morning of the seventh day of 
August, 1308, a crumpled fragment of linen, covered 
with mystic characters, was placed by the Templar turn- 
key into the hands of Jacques de Molai, the significance 
of which made him start. The meaning of those char- 
acters was this : 

“Clement deserts us! — Imbert tortures! — thirty-six 
Templars have expired on the rack ! — to-morrow the 
Grand Inquisitor will be in the Question Chamber of 
Chinon! What shall we do ? Inri! ”* 


* The signal-word of the order. 


THE GAUNTLET. 


263 


Instantly the old man traced on that portion of the 
fragment of linen, yet unused, a single cipher, conveying 
this significant sentence : 

“The good Templar follows his chief! ” 

“Thirty-six Templars have expired *on the rack,” 
thought Jacques de Molai. “The extinction of the, 
entire order by torture, is, doubtless, designed. That 
guilty woman’s threat is in" fulfillment ! This must 
cease ! And, then, once more — once more free, and 
on our good war-steeds, battle-brand in hand, we may 
defy a world ! ” 

The intelligence conveyed by the mystic cipher was 
true. The next day, — being the eighth day of August, 
William of Paris with two cardinal Legates, accom- 
panied by De Hogaret, De Marigni,DeChatillon, Ilexian 
de Beziers, the Prior of Montfau^on, and the sworn Tor- 
mentor of the Inquisition with all his dark familiars, 
arrived at Chinon, and, that very night, the Grand Mas- 
ter of the Templars was brought before the infamous, 
yet most imposing conclave.* 

Chinon, like all other castles of the age, was not with- 
out its Chamber of Torture, amply furnished with all 
the fearful inventions of the period for the production of 
human anguish. 

To this apartment Jacques de Molai was now con- 

* William of Paris, or William Imbert, was a monk of St. Dominic, and with 
his whole order, fresh from the bloody scenes of Languedoc and deeply 
versed in all inquisitorial arts and practices, was devoted, with all his soul, 
to the destruction of the Templars. De Nogaret was the murderer of Boni- 
face ; and Du Plessis, or William Plasian, his present coadjutator, had assisted 
in that sacrilege, and, afterwards, before all the peers and prelates of France, 
had borne oath that their victim was au atheist and a sorcerer and had a 
familiar demon l 


264 


THE GAUNTLET. 


ducted by tlie ministers of tlie Inquisition. It was a 
large quadrangular chamber, situated in the centre of 
the ponderous pile, and surrounded by walls of most 
massive thickness, with not a single aperture, save the 
low-browed entrance with its iron door. In the centre 
was a heavy table of oak, around which, in the order of 
a council, or a judicial tribunal, sat the Inquisitor with 
his spiritual and secular satellites. On the table- were 
parchments and materials for writing, and the Prior of 
Montfaugon seemed to act as greffier, or clerk, to record 
the proceedings. 

The apartment was but dimly lighted by a lamp of 
iron, which swung directly over the table by a rusty 
chain from the arched roof of ponderous masonry, drip- 
ping with damps, and threw its sinister and uncertain 
glare on the dark conclave below. Each of the members 
of that gloomy tribunal, whether priest or layman, was 
arrayed - in the full costume of his office and order. 

. The chamber itself seemed separated into two apart- 
ments, by a heavy curtain of sable serge ; and, notwith- 
standing it was now the depth of summer, a coal fire 
threw its blood -red glare from a grated furnace in the 
depths of the wall, and strove, but vainly strove, to dispel 
the sepulchral damps, as well as to aid in giving the 
dungeon light, or, rather, in rendering its darkness more 
visible. 

Loaded with chains, Jacques de Molai, Grand Master 
of the Templars, strode into the presence of this fearful 
tribunal, with arms folded on his broad breast, and with 
a brow as serene, and a step as firm and majestic, and 


THE GAUNTLET. 


265 


form as erect, and glance as bold, as lie bad ever trod 
the floor of bis own Chapter-chamber, or the field of 
Paynim conflict. 

A brief delay occurred, when he was thus addressed 
by the Inquisitor : 

“ Jacques de Molai, Grand Master of the Order of 
Knights of the Temple, otherwise known as Chevaliers 
of the Temple, otherwise known as Knights of the Pcd 
Cross, and, by themselves, presumptuously and blasphem- 
ously, entitled ‘ Poor Fellow Companions of Jesus Christ 
and Soldier-monks of the Temple of Solomon,’ — Jacques 
de Molai, hear and understand 1 You are charged, as 
chief of this order, and, in your person, this order is 
charged, with apostacy to God, treason to man, heresy 
to the Church, denial of Christ, compact with the Infidel, 
idolatry of Satan, and with many other iniquities too 
horrible to declare and too numerous now to recite. To 
this arraignment of yourself and of the order you rule, — 
Jacques de Molai, what say you ? Are you guilty, or 
are you not guilty ? ” 

The majestic old man clasped his manacled hands, 
and, raising his eyes to Heaven, in firm and steady tones 
responded : 

“Before God, for my beloved order and for myself, 
I answer, — ISTot guilty ! ” 

The Inquisitor- General gave three raps upon the table 
with a small gavel of ebony, and, instantly, the curtain 
of black serge at the extremity of the apartment in 
front of the council rose. 

The spectacle it revealed might well cause the firmest 


266 


THE GAUNTLET. 


nerves to tremble. The first object which arrested the 
eve was a low leathern mattress, spread on a frame, in 
the centre of the apartment thus revealed ; while, from 
the vaulted and cavern-like arch above, descended a 
stout pulley, to the extremity of which, and reposing on 
the leathern bed, was a broad belt for the waist, with a 
copper buckle, and two straps of similar breadth and 
similarly furnished for the shoulders. This, in the 
poetical parlance of the age, was a “Bed of Justice .” 
Beside this mattress was a frame of somewhat similar 
structure, but furnished at both ends with a sort of 
windlass, evidently worked by the ropes and levers 
attached. 

Upon the Bed of Justice sat a fearful figure in gar- 
ments of black slashed with crimson, and with muscular 
arms bare to the elbow; while, beside him, sat two 
assistants similarly garbed. 

At a table, at the further extremity of the compart- 
ment, in a huge arm-chair of oak, sat another man, 
garbed in robes of black velvet. Before him was an 
array of restoratives, and elixirs, and cordials, and pun- 
gent aromas, and a few of the rude surgical instruments 
of the day, — scalpels and lancets, and tourniquets, and 
knives. This man was the surgeon of the Torture- 
chamber; for, by hellish humanity, the victim was suf- 
fered to perish by nothing but torture; and the utmost 
assiduity and all the skill of science of the day were 
exercised to prevent syncope, collapse, or a too speedy 
death. Beside the rack ever stood the surgeon, with 
vigilant finger on the victim’s pulse; and the torments 


THE GAUNTLET. 


267 


were increased or diminished, exactly as the strength of 
the subject seemed to permit, — exactly as the fluttering, 
or fevered pulse might indicate the discretion of the r 
appliance ! 

Upon the floor, or hanging against the walls, was a 
confused and fearful array of strange-shaped and name- 
less implements of torture. Bucklers and bracelets, — 
helmets and corselets, — screws for the thumb and col- 
lars for the throat, — buskins of iron and gauntlets of 
steel, — hooks, and chains, and saws, and pulleys, — 
wedges and beetles of every size — such was the hideous 
paraphernalia of this vestibule of hell, while, in a blaz- 
ing furnace in the solid wall, like that already described 
in the other apartment, gleamed pincers, and tongs, and 
bands, and ploughshares, in fiery menace. Against the 
wall leaned an iron wheel, and beside it stood a massive 
mace of the same material, wherewith to crush the 
limbs of the victim reclining on its spokes, — his head 
bound to the hub and his feet braced against the felloe! 

As the black curtain ascended, being apparently 
drawn up, on either side, by unseen cords, the sworn 
Tormentor with his assistants at once arose, and 
approached the venerable victim, who, with folded arms 
and erect form, calm and unmoved, still stood before 
that infamous council. 

“The gauntlet!” said Imbert; and, immediately, one 
of the assistants brought forward with difficulty a mas- 
sive glove of steel, which he laid heavily on the table 
of council. At the same time, the other satellite, in 
company with his chief, approached the Grand Master, 
17 


268 


THE GAUNTLET. 


and they laid their huge hands rudely upon his shoulders. 
The next instant both men were prostrate on the stone 
pavement, on either side, at the distance of several feet 
from the Templar chief, while the fire of indignation 
and insulted pride flamed from the deep sockets of his 
sunken eves. Then, striding firmly to the table, he 
thrust his powerful hand and arm, half-way up to the 
elbow, into the gauntlet of steel. 

“Begin!” criel the Inquisitor, with malice almost 
fiend-like in his tones. 

The assistant tormentor at once commenced turning a 
screw situated upon the back of the ponderous gauntlet, 
through which, by most exquisite skill and contrivance, 
— a skill and contrivance worthy of exertion in a better 
cause, — the whole internal apparatus began immediately 
to contract, embracing every knuckle, and muscle, and 
nail, — such was the mechanical ingenuity of its con- 
struction, — so perfectly and so slowly grasping the 
whole hand in its velvet lining, with such equable pres- 
sure, that, for some moments, no disagreeable sensation 
whatever could be perceived, but rather the reverse. 
The first perceptible effect experienced by the victim 
was arrest of circulation and slowly increasing paralysis 
of the parts. Next, sharp and cutting pangs shot up the 
nerves into the arm and body ; then, sharp semi-circles of 
steel began to sink into the quick at the roots of the 
nails, — rough knobs began to crush the knuckles, while 
sinews of adamant adapted themselves with infernal 
precision and annihilating effect to the sinews and mus- 
cles and tendons of the living mechanism of God! 


THE GAUNTLET. 


269 


The torture elicited by sucli a contrivance may, 
possibly, in some small degree, be conceived. Describe 
it, of course, cannot be. It can, however, be readily 
imagined that of all the skilful inventions of a Dark 
Age to produce human agony, there were few that 
could assume precedence . of the gauntlet for their 
infernal triumph. 

And to this hellish instrument was the hand of the 
heroic old man, which had so often, for the glory of the 
Church and the cross, — that same church and cross for 
heresy to which he now, by* blasphemous perversion of 
terms, was doomed to suffer, — was the hand of the noble 
Templar chief, which had so often for the Church 
grasped the battle-brand, now subjected! 

It was the Templar’s right hand which was embraced 
by the ponderous gauntlet, as it lay on the table before 
the Inquisitors. The broad palm of his left hand was 
pressed closely over his heart; — his posture was firm — 
stern — erect — majestic; — his head was turned aside over 
his left shoulder, and slightly thrown back; while, with 
lips apart, and eyes and face devoutly raised to Heaven, 
as if in prayer, he awaited the torments, which, slowly 
yet most surely, were approaching. 

For some moments, as the tormentor noiselessly and 
ceaselessly turned the well-oiled screw, the Inquisitors, 
whose eyes were fastened with curiosity and awe upon 
the majestic face of their victim, could perceive no 
change. At length, the broad brow slowly corrugated, 
—the lips curled with anguish so as to lay bare the 
white teeth, — the eyelids fell, — the hand dropped like 


270 


THE GAUNTLET. 


lead from the heart, — the pallor of death diffused itself 
over the countenance, — a groan of more than human 
anguish burst from the heaving bosom, and, the totter- 
ing, the venerable sufferer would have fallen, had he not 
been sustained by the ponderous gauntlet by which his 
hand was grasped. 

‘‘Hold!” shouted Imbert, springing to his feet. The 
whole council, at the same instant, and seemingly through 
the same impulse, had also risen. “Reverse ! ” he cried 
to the demon of the screw. 

The slave obeyed, and the gauntlet began to relax its 
crushing clasp. At the same time, the man in black 
hurried forward with a small silver basin half- filled with 
a freshly-poured fluid, the pungent and acrid aroma of 
which instantly loaded the atmosphere of the chamber. 
Tn his hand he bore a sponge. Saturating the sponge 
with the fluid, and throwing his arm around the victim’s 
drooping form to give it support, he began, with ready 
skill, application of the soft and porous mass to the nos- 
trils, lips, cheeks and pallid brow of the exhausted suf- 
ferer, who showed immediate symptoms of reviving 
energy. He was, however, too feeble to stand, and was 
borne by the dark familiars, with most solicitous assidu- 
ity, to the low leathern mattress, worn thin by use, of 
the Bed of Justice. The wretches were solicitous lest 
their victim should too soon escape them, — lest he 
should evade additional torments held in reserve. The 
head of the Templar rested on the bosom of the physi- 
cian, who sat at one extremity of the mattress, while the 
tormentor and his assistants, with prompt ingenuity, aided 


THE GAUNTLET. 


271 


to sustain his almost gigantic form, by means of the 
broad leathern belt suspended by pulleys attached to the 
arched roof over the bed of torment, with which they 
encircled his waist. 

The physician still continued unremittingly to bathe 
the pale face of the sufferer; and his assiduities were, at 
length, rewarded by success. A deep sigh heaved the 
patient’s breast, — his eyes languidly opened, — his lips 
moved. 

“The flesh is, indeed, weak,” he murmured. “Oh, 
God! how very feeble thy creatures are!” 

“ What says the prisoner?” asked Imbert, who, with 
the other members of the council, had regained his 
seat. 

“He says the flesh is weak,” echoed the physician. 

“Greffier,” cried Imbert, “write down that the accused 
says, ‘The flesh is weak.’” 

The secretary, who had already recorded the groan, 
the swoon, and the sigh, instantly, with prompt and 
punctilious officiousness, obeyed. 

“ Jacquis de Molai,” again cried the President of the 
council, after a pause, “ do you confess the guilt of the 
which you here stand charged? ” 

A silence of some moments succeedefl. 

“ For the second time, Jacques de Molai, — do you con- 
fess your guilt? ” asked Imbert. 

Again there was no answer, and again there was 
silence. 

“Jacques dc Molai, for the last time, — do. you confess 
your guilt?” repeated the monk. 


272 


THE GAUNTLET. 


“I do!” was the feeble response. 

Ilad the arcbed roof of that dark chamber fallen, the 
Inquisitors could hardly have manifested more wonder 
than at this unexpected confession. They gazed on each 
other in bewildered surprise with which was not un- 
mingled an expression of bitter disappointment. It was 
plain they had never dreamed, after beholding thirty- 
six inferior knights of the order expire on the rack, with- 
out the utterance of a syllable of acknowledgement or 
contrition, that their heroic chieftain would be the first 
to falter; and it was plain, too, that this miracle was no 
more agreeable to them, — inveterate foes to the order as 
each one individually was from private and personal 
hostilities without number, — than intelligence thereof 
would, probably, prove to its most devoted friends, — 
though, of course, for very different reasons. 

“Greffier,” said Imbert, after a brief pause, recovering 
somewhat from his amazement, “write down that the 
prisoner says, ‘ I do,’ in confession of his guilt.” 

The clerk obeyed, and read aloud what he had written. 

The Inquisitor then resumed his interrogatories. 

“Jacques de Molai, you confess yourself guilty of 
heresy? ” 

“ Yes,” was the response of the old man, in meaning- 
less and mechanical tones. 

He seemed in a stupor, as with eyes closed, and his head 
resting on the breast of the physician, who still applied 
the restorative, he reclined on the low leathern bed. 

L But his brain was busy, — his thoughts were far away ; 
he was sacrificing himself to the salvation, as he hoped, 


THE GAUNTLET. 


273 


of his beloved order, and he knew it, he meant it. lie 
had but one answer to make to every question, be it 
what it might, and that answer was brief, and required 
no reflection. 

“You confess yourself guilty of sortilege and magic?’’ 
continued Imbert. 

“Yes.” 

“And of converse and commerce with the devil, in the 
form of a big black tom-cat?” 

“Yes.” 

“And of having worshipped said devil, in the shape 
of said big black tom-cat?” 

“ Yes.” 

“And, likewise, of having worshipped a big brass 
head, with goggle eyes, and a long black beard, said 
beard being greased with the fat fried out of a Tem- 
plar’s child, which child, aforesaid, you and your knights 
roasted before a slow fire on the points of your swords? ”* 

“Yes.” 

“And of having sold the Holy Sepulchre to the 
Infidel?” 


* \s regards the head the Templars were said to worship, accounts vary. 
Some say it was that of an old man with a long white beard ; and others that 
it was the head of a young woman, and one of the 11,000 virgins of Cologne! 
Another account is this: A Templar loving a maiden, she slew herself 
rather than yield to him. After her interment, he opened her grave, and cut 
off the head, and, while thus doing, he heard issuing from the pale lips these 
words— Whoever looks on me shall be destroyed ! ” Enclosing this Medusa- 
like head in a box, he took it to Palestine, and, wherever he uncovered the 
head, walls of cities and whole armies fell! At length he embarked to 
destroy Constantinople; but, on the voyage, a woman, out of curiosity, 
opened the fatal box a tempest arose!— the ship was wrecked!— every one 
perished, but the knight, and the very fishes deserted that sea! And, ever 
after, in tempests, that beautiful head rose to the surface, and rode, 

f ;racefully the waves with streaming hair, and every ship went down before 
t! How the Templars got possession of this terrible head tradition telletli 
cot! 


274 


THE GAUNTLET. 


“Yes” 

“And denied Christ?” 

“ Yes ” 

“And trampled on tlie cross, and spit on the conse- 
crated host, and mutilated the solemn Mass?” 

“Yes” 

“And that you have drunk human blood, mingled 
with Cyprus wine, out of skulls, with wizards and witches, 
and sorcerers, and demons, at their feasts and Sabbaths, 
and likewise, then and there, and at such time and place, 
have hopped about on one foot around a big cauldron, 
in which cauldron was boiling the flesh of infants,) 
which aforesaid flesh, you did, then and there, after- 
wards, with the aforesaid devils and other evil persons, 
partake of and devour, with much gloss and glamour 
and magical practices, likewise, with vigils, and periapts, 
and cabalistic and symbolic signs and mysteries? ” 

The Templar was silent. 

“Yes, or no? — Jacques de Molai — answer!” cried 
Imbert in tones, which, had that dark old chamber pos- 
sessed echoes, would have roused them all. 

They certainly roused the poor victim from his rev- 
erie, for he quickly and eagerly answered: 

“Yes! — yes !” 

“ And you do likewise confess that you have pledged 
the libation of blood, as a seal of your compact with the 
Infidel, — your blood and his blood being commingled in 
the same skull, and drunk up warm and steaming?” 

“ Yes ” 

The Grand Inquisitor paused to take breath : also, to 


THE GAUNTLET. 


275 


give the unhappy Greffier, whose pen the righteous 
enthusiasm of the monk’s pregnant and rapid interroga- 
tories had kept in furious requisition, a chance to catch 
up; likewise to wipe his forehead. 

But there was another reason why the pious monk 
of St. Dominic paused, and of far more import, with 
himself, at least, than either of the others ; — he had 
nothing more to say ! Of common crimes, such as rob- 
bery, rapine, ravishment, murder, adultery, and the like, 
though the charge against the doomed order embodied 
each and every one in the Hebrew Decalogue, or in the 
code of Draco, — the wise, and merciful, and learned 
William of Pans condescended to question not a word ! 
Not he! Such crimes were in the comparison, trifling, 
in the wise appreciation of the holy father, — aye! and 
in the infallible judgment of the Holy Church, too, it 
would seem; for she would sell the privilege of perpetra- 
ting any or either of the same for a trifling considera- 
tion! Such crimes were a mere bagatelle compared with 
the heinous offences of worshipping Beelzebub in the 
shape of a big black tom-cat, — of bowing down to a 
brazen head with goggle eyes, — of greasing the beard 
of the aforesaid head with the fat of Templar babies, — 
of drinking Paynirn blood out of Pa3 r nim skulls, — of dan- 
cing at wizards’ feasts and witches’ Sabbaths, and the 
like, as has been herein rehearsed !* 


* If the reader deems it incredible, that, on charges like these and abso- 
lutely and literally these, the Templars were arraigned, tortured, and burnt, 
let him consult ‘the works of Dupuy, Raynouard, Vertot, and Villani, in 
French ; and those of all modern historians, whether Catholic or Protestant, 
in English ! 


276 


THE GAUNTLET. 


“ The Holy Office has closed its interrogatories,” was 
the pompous promulgation of the Inquisitor- General, 
otherwise William of Paris, otherwise plain William 
Imbert, a friar of St. Dominic, — when he had gone to 
the length of his intellectual tether, and had asked as 
touching every crime of which the polluted annals of the 
aforesaid Holy Office then had record, — so far as ilia 
memory, after due refreshment and reflection and consul- 
tation with the Cardinals, at the moment served him. 
“ The Holy Office has closed its interrogatories. After 
the spiritual comes the civil authority.” 

This was understood to mean that De Nogaret, De 
Marigni, or De Chatillon, the Chancellor, Minister, and 
Constable of France, had now permission to propound 
questions. The Papal Legates were mere spectators and 
counsellors. 

“Jacques de Molai,” cried the first,' “you confess 
the commission of adultery, fornication, and most horri- 
ble, abominable, unmentionable, damnable, and beastial 
crimes, and unpardonable sins against God and Nature ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied the Grand Master, who was roused by 
his friend, the leech, in time to pronounce the significant 
and saving monosyllable, without exciting wrath, or 
suspicion by any “ heretical and obstinate delay.” 

Poor old man! He charged himself with crimes of 
which he could not have been guilty, if he would! The 
only passion he had ever felt, — or indulged, in all his 
life, was military ambition; and, for twenty years, the 
blood in his veins had been ice to all “fleshly lusts 
that war against the soul.” 


THE GAUNTLET. 


277 


“Jacques de Molai,” cried tlie second, and lie was the 
Prime Minister, — “ you confess yourself guilty of treason 
to the crown of France ? ” 

“Yes,” was the automatic answer. 

“Jacques de Molai,” cried the third, and he was the 
Constable, — “you confess that you have drawn your 
sword, and levied war, and treasonably conspired, and 
meditated and suborned others to conspire and to medi- 
tate treason, against the peace and dignity of the realm 
of France, and her rightful King, Philip the Fourth, the 
grandson of St. Louis ? ” 

“ Yes,” was the careless answer. 

Had they asked the old man if he had made the 
world, — that act being construed a criminal one — or had 
led on the Titans to scale Olympus and dethrone Jove, 
— or, instigated the rebel angels to dethrone the Piety, 
his answer would have been the same ! 

But, as none of these interrogations chanced to occur 
to these most astute and learned lords spiritual and tem- 
poral, they were not, of course, propounded. Besides, 
these offences would, in all probability, have been 
deemed but minor ones as compared with sortilege and 
sodomy and magic and idolatry.* 

A pause of some considerable length succeeded, during 
which silence nothing was heard save the reed pen of 
the perspiring Greffier, who toiled away to complete his 
record of the wonderful revelations of that midnight 
conclave. 


* Nearly every charge against the Templars had previously been made 
against the martyred Albigenses. 


278 


THE GAUNTLET. 


At length, he ceased to write, and, with a relieved, 
satisfied, and self-complaisant air, contemplated the 
work of his hands. This was the signal for the Grand 
Inquisitor again to break silence. 

“ Greffier,” cried the monk, with most magisterial sol- 
emnity, “you will now rehearse the record of the pro- 
ceedings of this our sitting 1 ” 

The Greffier instantly stood up, and began reading, in 
that melodious tone styled the nasal, which, was quite 
as characteristic of clerks more than five centuries ago, 
as it is said to be now. 

“ Amen — amen — amen ! Be it known, to all and sin- 
gular, to whom come these writings, that, on the night 
of the eighth day of August, in the year of the world’s 
salvation, one thousand three hundred and eight, we, 
the undersigned, — to wit: — William Imbert, Inquisitor- 
General, Cardinals de Prato and De Montesiore, Legates 
of the Papal See, William de Nogaret, Chancellor of 
France, Enguerrand de Marigni, Prime Minister, and 
Hugh de Chatilloii, Grand Constable of the realm, and 
likewise, etc., etc., appointed to examine, as touching 
their crimes, the Grand Master of the Templars, and 
the Grand Priors of France, and of Normandy, and of 
Acquitaino, by ordinary and extraordinary torture, did 
meet and assemble in the Question Chamber of the Castle 
of Cliinon, in the Province of Limousin, and then and there 
did proceed to work. Jacques de Molai, Grand Master 
of the Templars, being produced and arraigned, pleaded 
not guilty to the charges preferred against him and his 
order, whereupon, being subjected to the gauntlet , he 


THE GAUNTLET. 


279 


groaned, and tlien nearly swooned, and then, when lie 
revived, sighed, and said— ‘ The flesh is weak; '' and 
being asked, if he would confess— said, ‘Yes;’ and 
being asked if he was guilty of heresy, said, ‘Yes;’ and 
being asked if he was guilty of sortilege and magic, said, 
‘Yes;’ and, being asked if he had worshipped the devil 
in the shape of a big black torn-cat, said, ‘Yes;’ and 
being asked,” etc., etc. 

And thus ran on this most edifying and truthful 
record, to the very end of the chapter already detailed! 

When the sweet and nasal tones of the Greffier ceased to 
be heard, the Inquisitor and his coadjutors rose together 
solemnly from their chairs. 

“Jacques de Molai,” cried the Inquisitor, “you have 
heard read the record of your examination by ordinary 
and extraordinary torture.” 

The old man had heard not a syllable. His thoughts 
were elsewhere, and on matters of far different import. 

“ I 3 that record true, or is it false ? ” 

“Yes,” replied the Templar chief. _ 

His friend of the sponge and basin, who seemed to have 
a complete, and adequate, and most intelligent apprecia- 
tion and comprehension of the whole scene, with all its 
merits, and also its demerits, if it had any, — arising from 
long familiarity with the like, had given him a season- 
able punch in the side. 

“Is it true, or false 1” thundered Imbcrt, elevating his 
eyebrows, and affecting to regard the simple and inno- 
cent monosyllable as a suspicious indication of contu- 
macy. 


280 


THE GAUNTLET. 


‘‘True — true!’' whispered the man in black. 

“True — true!” eagerly echoed the victim. 

The wrath of the Inquisitor seemed partially appeased, 
and, in tones less terrible, he continued: 

“And you confess, in the presence of these witnesses, 
that you are guilty of all these manifold iniquities, and, 
also, that the whole order, of which you are chief, is 
likewise guilty — ” 

“Hold!” cried the Grand Master of the Temple, 
struggling to regain his feet. 

A flash of lightning could hardly have electrified 
every man in that apartment more completely than did 
that shout. 

The old hero had been viewed as little better than 
dead, but the very name of his beloved order had 
recalled him to life. 

“Hear me and bear witness, all you who are here 
present ! ” he exclaimed, in stern, strong tones. “ Against 
myself I confess everything : — against the Temple noth- 
ing / ” 

And the victim sank back again into his seeming 
stupor, as if exhausted. 

The members of the council looked on each other 
in solicitude and doubt. 

But the night was now far advanced, and the saga- 
cious Imbert put a summary close to all embarrassment, 
by exclaiming: 

“Jacques de Molai will be borne to his dungeon. On 
the morrow, Hugh de Peralde will be examined by or- 
dinary and extraordinary torture, as touching his crimes, 


THE GAUNTLET. 


281 


and after bim tlie Grand Priors of Normandy and 
Acquitaine, in succession. And God save the Holy 
Church !” 

“ God save the Holy Church ! ” echoed all in the dun- 
geon, crossing their breasts. 

And even so it was. 

And the council dispersed. 

And Jacques de Molai was borne to his dungeon. 

And the next day the Grand Priors of France, and 
Normandy, and Acquitaine were examined by ordinary 
and extraordinary torture, as touching the preferred 
charges. 

But the faithful Templar turnkey had placed in their 
hands the cipher from the chief of their beloved order, 
which meant: 

“ The good Templar follows his leader.” 

And likewise the Templar watch-word of Chinon, 
which was this : 

u Yes!” 


282 


THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 


CHAPTER XXIV, 


THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 


HE examination of the Grand Priors of France, 



3 Normandy and Acquitaine which ensued, as 
appointed, on the night succeeding that of the examina- 
tion of the Grand Master of the order, in the Question 
Chamber of the Castle of Chinon, was, in all respects, in 
.character and in results, the same as that detailed in the 
last chapter. The mode of torture only was varied, and 
the confessions varied, also, in unimportant details; 
while less time was wasted upon all three of the Priors 
together than had been devoted to the chief magnate of 
the order alone. 

On the morning succeeding the examination of the 
Grand Priors, being that of the tenth day of August, 1308, 
the whole council deputed to the service left Chinon for 
Paris, with all the records of their proceedings, in order 
themselves to be the couriers of the unlooked-for result 
of their mission, and to afford their royal master the aid 
of their suggestions, as touching the somewhat embar- 
rassing position, in which they were aware he would be 
placed by the event they were to announce. 

Nor had they misj udged. Philip was filled with rage, and 
disappointment at being thus foiled in a purpose, which 
De Molai seems rightly to have divined, of annihilating 


THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 


283 


the whole order upon the rack, save only those who 
would renounce their vows and aid in his design ! Of 
’these latter were not a few of those wlio had assumed 
the title of Templar and its costume, without the right 
to either, and had been degraded by the Grand Master, 
in his stringent efforts at reform, on his first arrival at 
Paris. There were others from whom the Templar 
mantle had been torn as a mark of degradation, for vice 
or for crime, or who had been subjected to penance or 
imprisonment for violation of their vows, who were 
rejoiced at the opportunity now afforded them, not only of 
charging the order from which they were apostates of 
most horrid guilt, but thereby obtaining honors and 
rewards. Others there were whom menace had intim- 
idated, torture vanquished, or bribery corrupted. But, 
until now, the number of these was comparatively small, 
as is evidenced by the large proportion of the victims 
who expired from the extremity of their tortures. 

But, now 2 as the astute Philip had foreseen it would 
be, it was very different. The example of the Grand 
Officers of the order seemed irresistible. At once, not 
only in all the dungeons of Paris and all over France, 
but in England and Provence, at Kavenna, Pisa and 
Florence,* and, indeed, all over Europe, every charge, 
however hideous, and impossible, and absurd, was no 
sooner preferred than confessed. 

Dismayed, disappointed, embarrassed, the enemies 
of the persecuted order were at a loss what next to do. 
The effect of the Grand Master’s example surpassed their 


18 


* Velly. 


284 


THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 


utmost apprehensions, and excited even their astonish- 
ment, That amazement would, probably, have been less, 
had they been aware that, in the train of the Inquisitor 
of Chinon, rode one who entered Paris with themselves, 
and who bore an order in cipher from De Molai to 
the imprisoned Templars, bidding them imitate their 
Master. “ The good Templar follows his leader,” said 
a single cipher of the soldier-monk ; and this cipher 
explained all. They asked not for motives, nor for 
designs. It was the order of the Grand Master, and 
they obeyed. 

But if Philip and his Ministers evinced surprise and 
disappointment at the unexpected and embarrassing 
phase now assumed by the affairs of the Templars, there 
was one whose wrath at that event far exceeded their 
own, even as her prior enthusiasm exhibited in the 
cause had put their own to the blush. That person- 
strange to tell! — was the once mild, gentle, amiable, 
and still most lovely Blanche of Artois, the Countess of 
Marche ! From the midnight dungeons of Chinon, she 
seems to have emerged a fiend of cruelty and crime ! 

It has been asserted that the heart of woman, once 
thoroughly depraved, can find no equal in the breast of 
man, however corrupt ; that it knows no compunction, 
is utterly unforgiving, and can devise and calmly inflict 
torments, at which the sterner sex would shudder. If 
this be so, never was a more striking example of the 
principle exhibited than in Blanche of Artois. Never 
had woman loved, worshipped, idolized, more deeply, 
desperately, devotedly, than had she. The first gushings 


THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 


285 


of her passionate heart had been checked and chilled at 
their very fountain by the faithfulness of their unworthy 
object ; and, having turned elsewhere for consolation 
and sympathy in an ill-fated hour, it had centered on one 
who seemed the very vision that had haunted all her 
girlhood dreams — the very ideal of all her maturer long- 
ings. Oh, how had that fond and fervid bosom palpitated 
with passion in the embrace of that beloved being : and, 
oh, the agony by which it had been wrung when bereft 
of its idol! To win back that idol — to clasp that 
beloved object once more to her heart, although the 
embrace were death, she would gladly sacrifice allmost 
dear to her as a princess, or a woman. Alas ! what had 
she not sacrificed! She, the proud, the pure, the peer- 
less — the bride of a prince, the idol of a palace, the star 
of a court, the boast of a kingdom, the counsellor of a 
king, the beloved and admired of all who knew her — to 
whose sweet face all eyes looked up with respectful love, 
and for whom one guilty throb would have been crushed 
in the heart as sacrilege — alas ! — alas ! — what was she 
now? The insane slave of a horrible and unheard-of 
vengeance, begotten in a heart now a hell — once a 
heaven by a passion yet more deliriously mad, more 
rapturously guilty ! Ah ! what had not that wild pas- 
sion cost her ! Doubt, dread, delirium, terror, suspense, 
remorse! And the dreadful vengeance that followed! 
Every pang she inflicted she felt; and the rack in the 
dungeons of her own dark heart worked on as ceaselessly 
as in the dread dungeons of her innocent victims ! 

And then the humiliation, the abject and pitiful 


286 


THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 


entreaty, the beseeching supplication, to which she had 
bowed herself, because of that same wild love! The 
youthful, beautiful, powerful Countess of Marche, at 
midnight, in the damp dungeons of Chinon, gained only 
by a long and toilsome route, through subterranean pas- 
sage — at the foot of a manacled old man, imploring, 
entreating, supplicating, by all things most sacred and 
most dear — only to be haughtily and scornfully spurned ! 

“ Ah, let him writhe — let him writhe on ! ” would she 
wildly and exultingly exclaim, as with rapid steps and 
flashing eyes, and pallid cheek, and disheveled hair, like 
a lost spirit, she would pace at midnight her lonely 
chamber. “ Oh, God! what but the rapture of revenge 
is left me before I die ! Aye, let him writhe, agonize — 
that dark old man, even as I do now ! But, alas ! he 
cannot suffer with me! Ah, had I but his naked heart 
within my grasp, that I might crush it, even as he lias 
crushed mine ! But the end is not yet — the end is not 
yet! Adrian, Adrian, Adrian!” she would ejaculate, 
in tones of touching sorrow, bursting into an agony of 
tears, and dropping beside the couch on which he had 
so often received her caresses, and burying her face in 
her hands — “ Would to God we were both of us dead !” 

And scenes like this were witnessed by that deserted 
chamber of Blanche of Artois, not once, nor twice, nor 
thrice, nor many times ; but every night, when, after a 
whole day of toil in the accomplishment of her fierce 
and terrible vengeance, she retired to her lonely pillow, 
such fearful scenes, accompanied by prayers, and vows, 
and ejaculations, and awful maledictions, occurred! 


THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 


287 


It is not wonderful, therefore, that when that revenge, 
so fiercely sought, seemed, even for a moment, foiled or 
balked, the avenging spirit in Blanche of Artois should 
have been proportionally roused. 

As for Philip, he was too deep a student — too profound 
an inquisitor of the human heart not to perceive that 
his fair daughter-in-law, despite all concealments and 
disguises, was actuated by some intenser emotion than 
the wish to gratify him, in her pertinacious pursuit of 
the Templars. What that impulse might be he could 
not divine ; and, in sooth, absorbed as he was in his own 
grasping and avaricious schemes with reference to the 
same end, he did not very zealously seek. Ilis curiosity, 
it is true, was somewhat piqued to know the influence 
that could have changed so gentle a being, as had 
always been, until lately, Blanche of Artois, into the 
stern, fierce, resentful woman he now knew her. But 
her revenge had the same object as his own avarice. 
Whatever its cause, of this he was sure ; and he did not 
know — nay, he did not care to know, and, surely, never 
asked, whence it originated. 

Adrian de Marigni had not been seen in Paris since 
his mysterious disappearance. Blanche had fondly hoped 
that he might be found in the dungeons of the Temple ; 
but when, at her instance, and for this sole purpose, it 
had been seized and converted into a palace, although 
she had personally, at midnight, torch in hand, searched 
every vault, and well, and oubliette and in pace , and dun- 
geon, of that black old pile, and though she had found 
many victims, she found notj alas! — him she sought. 


288 


THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOHTE. 


And the Queen of Navarre and Philip de Launai, her 
Norman lover — the single star yet gleamed nightly from 
the tall tower of the Hotel of Nesle, and nightly the 
solitary boatman crossed the Seine when the clock of St, 
Germain l’Auxerrois tolled the half hour after twelve. 

Jane of Burgundy had given birth to a daughter (who 
in after years was Isabella, Dauphine of Viennois) at the 
Abbey of Maubuisson. But this event did not part her 
from her handsome Equerry, her beloved Walter. 

Walter and Philip were both Templars — as has been 
said — but the guardian care of the ladies of their love 
saved them from the dungeon and the rack. 

Louis le Hutin passed most of his time at the city of 
Pampeluna, the capital of Upper Navarre, governing 
his little realm a little, and making love to a lovely 
Navarre lady a good deal. 

As for Charles le Bel and Philip le Long , the other 
two sons of the King, (who, each of them, in turn, after 
their elder brother Louis, became sovereign of France), 
they lived in the Louvre, and were not Templar Knights, 
and cared very little who were, so long as they were 
permitted undisturbed to prosecute their amours and 
intrigues. 

Charles of Yalois, disappointed in his aspirations for 
the imperial diadem, was in camp at Courtrav; but long 
since he had replied to the anxious inquiries of the Min- 
ister that his son had not joined his regiment, nor been 
heard of since sent to Paris with despatches, nearly 
three years before. 

And Marie Morfontaine, the poor and friendless 


THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 


289 


orphan heiress — but no — -friendless she was not — for, by 
one of those strange revulsions of the human heart, 
which are sometimes witnessed, the Countess of Marche 
now had the young girl — pale, thin, miserable, as she 
was — forever at her side ! She seemed now the only 
being that Blanche of Artois loved ! She would some- 
times clasp her to her heart, and for hours' these two 
women would mingle their tears. 

And Marie Morfontaine loved Blanche, despite all the 
irreparable harm she had done her ! And, despite all the 
irreparable harm each had done the other — and perhaps 
for that very reason — who knows? — they seemed now to 
cling to each other with a stronger grasp — with the 
grasp of death itself. Alas ! they were each to the 
other the sole remembrancer of the onlj 7, man each had 
ever truly loved ! They loved each other — bereaved 
and wretched as they were — for the very reason that 
each had loved him — lost, — lost- now forever to them 
both ! And as their love had the same object, so had 
their revenge ! 

Edmond de Goth still remained at the French Court, 
the most patient and the most devoted lover of the age! 
True, his love did not seem to pale his cheek much, 
nor to dim his eye, nor to diminish his bulk. Eot at 
all, indeed. His sorrowing and sighing — if, perad ven- 
ture, the worthy man knew what it was to sorrow or to 
sigh — seemed to have had the same effect on his form 
as they had on that of Shakspeare’s Sir John of Wind- 
sor — they “puffed it up like a bladder:” — and for this 
reason, and for no other, indeed, might he say, “,A 


290 


THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 


plague on it!” Yet why should he sorrow or sigh? 
True, Marie Morfontaine did not love him. She had 
told him so an hundred times. But then she had also 
said on the self-same hundred times that she did not 
love anybody else. And what could a reasonable lover 
require more, forsooth? Besides, to tell the truth, he 
had to confess, even to himself, that he was not, after 
all, actually, very deplorably and wretchedly in love 
with the young heiress^ It Avould have been a fierce 
flame, indeed, and perfectly vestal in its immortality, if 
in nothing else, to have blazed up against the almost 
daily quenchings she poured upon it'. Finally, though 
Marie Morfontaine did not love him, and was every day 
fading, fading and losing her beauty of face and form, 
yet it was some consolation— (to one who hoped against 
hope, that in very despair, and actually to get rid of 
him, she might possibly, at some distant day, perchance, 
take him for her lord) — that her immense estates in 
Normandy were every day becoming more and more 
valuable! Why should he grieve? He ate, slept, drank, 
dressed and flirted as usual: — why pity him? Pshaw! 
Why waste so many words on him ? 

Thus passed away the summer, and the autumn and 
winter of 1309, at the Court of France. The Templar 
Knights, although they freely admitted themselves guilty 
of every crime they were asked to admit, whether pos- 
sible or impossible, were still retained in their dungeons. 
It was plain that the scheme of the Grand Master did 
not result as he had hoped. That scheme the penetra- 
ting mind of Blanche of Artois had, from the first, thor- 


THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE, 291 

oughlj detected and seen through. She had now waited 
the prescribed time, and she had resolved that it should 
avail no more — that the hated order should not be saved. 
In her heart its doom had already long been sealed. 

Jacques de Molai, Ilughde Peralde, Guy of Normandy, 
and the Grand Prior of Acquitaine were brought from 
Chinon to the Temple. 

Again, despite the confessions of the victims, the rack 
was at work in every dungeon in Paris. 

The result was exactly that which this deep-plotting 
woman had anticipated. To the utter astonishment of 
every one but herself, almost every Templar, who before, 
without compulsion and torture, had confessed himself 
guilty of all possible and impossible crime, now, when 
stretched upon the rack, answered not a word! The 
secret cipher, the royal arch cipher was again at workj 
“The good Templar follows his leader.” The Grand 
Master had recanted! 

Were not all this fact, reader — historical fact — the 
testimony of hundreds of foes as well as of hundreds of 
friends of the Temple — it would be too strange even for 
the purposes of fiction. 

Philip had been embarrassed by the confession of the 
Templars: he was now more embarrassed by their recant- 
ation. Not so Blanche of Artois. “ Relapsed Heretics ” 
she called them ; and as such were they condemned ; and 
as such on the morning of Tuesday, the 12th of May, 
1310, were fifty-nine knights of the fated order — among, 
whom was one of the King’s own chaplains — consumed 
at the stake by slow fire, in a field behind the Abbey of 


292 


THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 


St. Antoine, on a spot then in the suburbs of Paris, now 
in its heart, and their ashes scattered to the winds ! On 
the same day many provinces of France witnessed a like 
spectacle. 

Over this horrible massacre presided the Archbishop 
of Sens, brother of Enguerrand de Marigni, the Minister, 
and uncle of Adrian. Each one of the victims died 
asserting steadfastly the innocence of all and the honor 
of the order with bis last breath. History relates that, 
after they had reached the spot, life and freedom were 
freely proffered, if they would repeat their former con- 
fession ; but the imploring prayers of friends and the awful 
terrors of the stake, the torches of which already blazed 
before their eyes, could not shake the purpose of these 
iron men. They were chained to the fatal tree — smoke 
and flame, like fiery scorpions, wreathed their suffering 
frames; but, so long as their voices- could be heard, 
through that wild whirlwind of conflagration, only the 
prayers and hymns of their beloved order, and their 
protestations to Heaven of their innocence could be dis- 
tinguished. 

This was awful! Even the citizens of Paris — pois- 
oned as were their prejudices against what they were 
taught to believe an infamous fraternity, could but ex- 
press admiration for the God-like firmness with which 
the martyred Templars met their end, and endured their 
torments; and express commiseration for their fate, and 
indignant wrath against their murderers ! 

But there was one — a pale and lovely woman — who, 
from the tall central tower of the Louvre, looked away 


THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 


293 


to the west, and viewed those flames until they had 
ceased to gleam against the darkening horizon; and she 
pitied not ! Alas ! alas ! she even exulted in her fiendish 
and horrible work. 

But a dreadful reckoning was at hand — close at hand! 
As she descended from that tower and entered her cham- 
ber, it was night; and in her hand a swift courier placed 
a paper; and she opened that paper quickly and read; 
and she dropped like a corpse upon the ground! 

That paper contained the last farewell of Adrian de 
Marigni, who that day, by virtue of a general order 
inspired by the Countess of Marche, had perished at the 
stake, consumed by slow fire, as a Knight Templar 
who would not confess, before the priory of Vosges, in 
the province of Lorraine!* 


* At Penlis nine Templars perished at the stake and four others shared their 
fate a few months later. At Pont-de-l’Arche and ( arcassone several knights 
were burnt. Thibault, Duke of Lorraine, a friend of Philip, put a laree num- 
ber to death, and seized the goods of their Preceptory. In the church of Gav- 
arnic, a hamlet of the Pyrenees, on the route to Spain, are shown twelve 
skulls, said to be those of Templars beheaded at that place. At Nimes. 
Troyes, Caen, Bigorre, Cahors, Poitiers, Bayeux. Metz, Toul, Derdun ana 
numerous other places, the order was subjected to tire torture. In Spain and 
Italy the rack was also applied to wring confession. 


294 


THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 

H APPY had it been for Blanche of Artois liad she 
from that deep and death-like slumber never 
awakened! 

But the miserable do not die ! They who court death 
seldom win it. There is in wretchedness a power of 
embalment, which seems to confer on its victim the fear- 
ful boon of earthly immortality ! Like that line in 
mathematical science which ever approaches, yet never 
attains the point at which it aims, — like the Hebrew 
wanderer who forever sought death, amid the scenes of 
its wildest ravages; yet never found it, — thus would it 
seem that the .miserable are forever forced to live; while 
the poor, shuddering, terrified, trembling wretch, to 
whom life is dear, and who, with terrible tenacity, clings 
to it, is torn bleeding away and hurried from the earth ! 

The ways of Providence are, indeed, mysterious! .In 
her grand and majestic march, how little heeds she those 
who are crushed beneath her tread ! 

Happy had it been for Blanche of Artois could she 
then have died ! 

Marie Morfontaine chanced to be in the apartment of 
the Countess when she entered, and instantly rendered 
that aid which all of Eve’s suffering daughters know so 


THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 


295 


well liow to administer to each other’s ills. Through 

o 

her active attention, Blanche soon evinced symptoms of 
returning life ; and, having opened her eyes, gazed wildly 
around. 

At length her gaze fell upon the young orphan, and 
clinging to her frail form, as if for succor, she murmured : 

“ What, — what is it, Marie?” 

“You have been ill, madame,” was the soft reply. 

“111?” muttered the Countess, after a pause. “Am I 
not always ill? ” Then suddenly throwing her hand to 
her forehead, she added, “Tell me, what has happened?” 

“I only know, madame,” replied the orphan, “that I 
heard a fall, and hastened out, and found you at your 
door in a swoon. I also found lying beside you this 
paper,” she continued, presenting the fatal note. 

Instantly the whole subject flashed back on the mind 
of the Countess, and for some moments she seemed 
again about to pass into her former unconscious state. 

But Blanche of Artois had a masculine mind, in a 
frame of iron inherited from a long line of heroic 
ancestors; and that mind gradually assumed its ascen- 
dency over that frame. 

“ Give me that paper! ” she exclaimed. 

She was obeyed, and with a shudder it was thrust into 
her bosom. 

“ Now, Marie, put me to bed,” she added more calmly ; 
“I am weary — very wear y” 

“ Shall I call your women, madame ? ” asked Marie. 

“No, no, no! call no one! — assist me to the couch,” 
was the low reply. 


296 THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 

The orphan obeyed. 

“ Shall I remain ? ” she asked. 

“Yes, oh, yes,” said the Countess; “and if you be- 
come weary, lie beside me.” 

Hour after hour — hour after hour, through the long 
and silent night watches, did Marie Morfontaine sit 
beside that unhappy woman, and gaze on that pale and 
lovely face, faintly lighted by the rays of the distant' 
lamp ; and hour after hour heard she the iron tongue of 
Time record its lapse. And, oh, the many miserable 
thoughts which passed through her mind — the many 
agonizing feelings that filled her breast ! But the pale 
slumberer — she moved not — scarcely seemed to breathe ; 
and at length Marie Morfontaine obeyed her injunction, 
and laid herself beside her on the couch, and, shortly, 
soundly slept. 

But -Blanche of Artois slept not — she woke not — 
dreamed not ; her mind and her senses seemed steeped 
in stupor. 

And thus was it even until the morning dawn. 

One would have supposed, after all Blanche of Artois 
had endured, she could hardly have experienced a new 
torture, either of body or of mind. 

But the heart, after all, is but a portion of the physi- 
cal being. Agony may be elicited by the application of 
torture to one of its parts, which to the sufferer may 
seem to embrace all of suffering which humanity can 
endure ; yet, let a different species of torment be applied 
to the same spot, or, let the same species of torment be 
applied to another, and the victim writhes in anguish, as 


THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 


297 


if' lie had never writhed before, nor thought that art had 
exhausted her tortures. 

Even thus was it with Blanche of Artois. She had 
suffered — she thought she had suffered all that the human 
heart could suffer. But, alas I she found it was not so 
when the conviction came home to her that her own 
order had consigned to death, by most awful and linger- 
ing torments, him, whom more than all earthly beings — - 
whom more than her own soul, whom more than her 
God Himself, she had loved ! 

Amid all her sufferings, hitherto, had still existed hope 
— the hope, however faint, that she might yet, before she 
died, clasp her idol to her heart. Hope now was dead. 
In its place was born despair, and from the incestuous 
union of despair and hate was begotten a new existence 
— a terrible revenge ! 

She could not perceive — poor woman, blinded as she 
was by intolerable anguish — that she had herself doomed 
her lover to an awful death — first by her wild love, and 
afterwards by her wilder vengeance. As for the un- 
happy orphan, she pitied her, loved her — even despised 
her, too thoroughly to blame her for any part she might 
have acted in this fatal tragedy. But there was one 
being on whom now all the intense and concentrated and 
virulent rancor of her strong soul concentred — him 
whom, from the first, she had viewed as the author of all 
her ruin. That man was Jacques de Molai, Grand Mas- 
ter of the Templar Knights, and on his devoted head 
she resolved to wreak all the fearful vengeance of her 
fancied wrongs and her terrible tortures. 


293 THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 

In tliis office of revenge, she was aided by another, 
who too late discovered that he had been exercising 
cruelty against the Templars, only to destroy his own 
dearest object in life, $nd as it were, too, with his own 
hands. That m an was Enguerrand de Marigni ; for, shortly 
after the communication to Blanche of Artois of the sac- 
rifice of Adrian, his only son, as a Templar, in a remote 
section of the realm, the same dreadful intelligence came 
to himself. The Minister had always been an uncom- 
promising foe of the Templars; but never, amid his 
wildest visions, had he dreamed that he was exerting all 
his energies for the destruction of an order of which his 
beloved son was a member ; and that, directly through 
those efforts, that son would be consigned to a dreadful 
death! On the first intelligence, he was overwhelmed 
with grief and dismay. But the lapse of time, which 
heals all wounds, healed even this, the most deep in a 
parental breast ; and into that breast, as into that of 
Blanche of Artois, entered — not the pure spirit of for- 
giveness, but the fell spirit of revenge. 

To commit Jacques de Molai and his Grand Officers to 
the stake — to sweep from existence that order, by them 
more dearly loved than life itself, and to confiscate its 
immense estates in France to the crown — such were how 
the three several purposes of three individuals : Blanche 
of Artois, Enguerrand de Marigni and Philip le Bel. 

To the death of Jacques de Molai were devoted all the 
energies of the Countess for the loss of her lover ; noth- 
ing less than the utter annihilation of the hated order 
could appease the vengeance of the Minister for the loss 


THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 299 


of his son ; and tlie rapacious spirit of the King had, 
from the first, regarded the vast revenues of the Templars 
as the only means by which to sustain his power, and to 
relieve Ids realm from the impending financial ruin, 
brought on by his protracted wars with England, Flan- 
ders, and Boniface Eighth. 

But in the final decis'on of the fate of the Temple 
and its Grand Officers, Pope Clement Fifth claimed, — and 
rightfully claimed, — to be the lord paramount; while it 
had already been decided, as he understood, by the com- 
pact of May, 1308, between the King and himself, that, 
in event of the abolition of the order, its vast wealth 
should revert to the Papal See, for the defence of the 
Holy Land. 

Bertrand de Goth had never forgotten nor forgiven the 
insults of Philip, at the Abbey of St. Jean d’ Angdly, nor 
those at the subsequent interview at Poitiers. Nor had 
he forgotten that the Boman Pontiff was the appellate 
chief of the Templars, and that, for two centuries, these 
mailed monks had been the unfaltering supporters of the 
successors of St. Peter, even against the King of Franco 
himself. But Bertrand de Goth was neither a great 
man nor a good man, and he long since had learned that 
he had to deal with a man as unscrupulous as he wa3 
powerful; — a man who had made him all that he was, 
and who, as he had planted him on a throne which he 
had vacated by the removal of two of his predecessors,* 
might also, if it so seemed good to him, remove himself 


* Boniface VIII. and Benedict XI. are both supposed to have owed their 
death to Philip le Bel , indirectly if not directly. 

19 


300 


THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 


to make room for a more pliant tool, — a more subservient 
and submissive slave. To preserve the lives of a large 
number of Templars who bad perished, he had found to 
exceed his power. He had himself been compelled to pre- 
side over the examination of seventy-two of the order, at 
Avignon, who had confessed every charge of which they 
were accused. It might exceed his power, or his will to 
exercise that power, to preserve the Grand Master and his 
companions from the stake, or to prevent the abolition 
of the order. But on one point he was resolute: rather 
than suffer the vast revenues and immense estates of the 
Temple to revert to the coffers of Philip of France, he 
was determined that, not only his pontifical power, but 
his life itself should be the sacrifice. 

This Philip understood and comported himself accord- 
ingly, and, in compliance with the demand of Clement, 
and in pursuance of his appointment, on the 7th of 
August, 1310, several months after the martyrdom of the 
Templars in the field of St. Antoine, there convened a 
Papal Commission of eight Ecclesiastics .in the Cathe- 
dral Church of ISTotre Dame, who cited the whole Order 
of the Templars to appear before them.* 


* Authorities conflict as to the chronology of the chief incidents of the per- 
secution of the Temple. Some historians state that a Papal Commission, in 
August, 1309, cited the Templars to Paris to defend their order:— that, in 
March, 1310, there were 900 knights in Paris, and that 546 came before the 
Commission sitting in the Bishop’s garden in the rear of Notre Dame and 
selected 75 of their number as champions:— that, in April. 21 witnesses were 
produced, and 13 examined:— that Philip de Marigni, Bishop of Cambray, was 
there made Archbishop of Sens by the King, and at once convened a provin- 
cial council of his diocese at Paris : and that. May 12th, three days afterward, 
54 of the Temnlars who had been chosen to defend the order were, upon sen- 
tence of this council, burned, in the field of St. Antoine, notwithstanding the 
most vehement remonstrance of the Papal Commission at perfidy so infa- 
mous. Those who confessed and retracted and persisted in that retraction 
were burnt as “relapsed heretics; ” those who did not confess were impris- 
oned as “ unreconciled Templars;" and those who persisted in their confes- 
sion were set at liberty as “ reconciled Templars!''* 


THE GRAND MASTER; IN NOTRE DAME. 801 

On the 26th day of November ensuing, the Commis- 
sion again assembled in the same place, thronged with 
the citizens of Paris, and Jacques de Molai was brought 
before it loaded with chains, and pale and emaciated by 
long imprisonment. On his being arraigned, the Presi- 
dent of the Council, Cardinal de Prato, demanded in a 
loud voice: 

“Jacques de Molai, Grand Master of the Order of the 
Temple, you stand before a council of Prelates commis- 
sioned by His Holiness, the Sovereign Pontiff, to exam- 
ine you, as touching many high heinous crimes, of the 
which you and your order are. credibly accused. To these 
charges what say you? ” 

“These accusations are not new, Lord Cardinal,” 
replied the prisoner, firmly. “I have already pleaded 
to this indictment in the behalf of myself and my order. 
And, yet, methinks that the Holy Church proceeds with 
unwonted precipitancy in this cause, when it is recalled 
that the sentence relative to the Emperor Frederic was 
suspended for more than thirty years.” 

“Jacques de Molai,” rejoined the Cardinal, sternly, 
“what have you to say why a decree of abolition 
should not be recorded by this Commission against the 
order of which you are chief ? ” 

The Grand Master started. It was plain lie was 
unprepared for a proposition so summary. But, quickly 
recovering, he replied with his usual firmness : 

“And is this council of noblest Prelates assembled in 
this ancient edifice, by authority of His Holiness, the 
Sovereign Pontiff, to deliberate on the abolition of an 


802 THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE NAME. 

order, founded by pious kniglits, to defend tbe Temple, 
and confirmed by the Apostolic See itself, and, which, 
for two hundred years, in the presence of all Christen- 
dom and Heathenesse, has poured forth its blood like 
water, for the cause of the Mother Church ?” 

“Not for the good deeds of this order/’ replied the Car- 
dinal, “but for its manifold evil deeds, do we now delib- 
erate, by command of the Holy Father, on the question 
of its final extinction, and for this do we now demand of 
you, Jacques de Molai, its chief, what have you to say 
why such decree should not be recorded?” 

“ Primates of the Church,” said De Molai, stretching 
forth his manacled hands, “you are rightly informed that 
I am the Grand Master of a perseculed order; and, for the 
honor thus bestowed upon me, wretch, indeed, should I 
be, did I not raise my voice in its behalf, and in defence 
of its noble sons so foully calumniated. But, Primates, 
I am a soldier, — not a scholar. These hands have been 
more familiar with the hilt of a battle-sword than with 
a pen. I am unlearned, also, both in civil and ecclesiastical 
law, utterly unused to forensic debate, or the subtilty of 
dialectics. Indeed, I know not even the forms of courts, 
nor their modes of procedure, and should prove as ut- 
terly unequal to cope with my scholastic accusers before 
this council, as, perchance, they might prove unequal to 
compete with the humblest of my knights in open lists. 
Oh,” lie exclaimed, raising his clasped and fettered hands 
with his eyes to Heaven, — “oh, for one fair field, with 
our brave battle-steeds beneath us, and our good battle- 
brands in our mailed grasp, and a whole world of armed 


THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 303 

foes before ns! But, alas! alas!” the old man sadly 
added, while his manacled hands fell with a crash at his 
sides, and the proud exultation of his bearing was suc- 
ceeded by the gloom of depression — “ we are lions snared 
in a net ! ” 

A murmur of admiration and sympathy ran through 
the multitude. 

“Jacques de Molai,” cried the Cardinal, after a pause 
of considerable duration, “for the third and the last 
time, I ask, do you defend the order of which you are 
chief? ” 

“I do — I do ! ” eagerly answered De Molai. “ But I 
am unlearned in the law, — I am very illiterate, — I can 
hardly read or write, — I have only one servant, — T am 
very poor, — they have taken all my money except four 
deniers; — I demand counsel for the Temple, to be paid 
from those treasures of the Temple, brought by myself 
into this city, to aid me in this defence.”* 

“In a charge of heresy the accused is entitled to no 
counsel,” replied De Prato, 

“Then, as chief of the Templars, I declare myself the 
champion of the order!” cried the soldier-priest intones 
that reverberated like thunder through those Cathedral 
aisles and along those Gothic arches: “and here I take 
my stands and throw my gage, and demand my trial by 
battel , and pledge myself to fight, until the death, all and 
any ten knights, in succession, who may come against 

* Henry Capetal, Governor of the Grand Chatelet. confessed that he arrested 
seven persons, who were denounced as being Templars in a lay habit, who had 
come to Paris, with money, in order to procure advocates for the accused— 
and had put them to the torture! And yet they came in accordance with tha 
citation oi the Papal Commission! 


804: 


THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 


me, iii fair field cliosen, and appearing in behalf of our 
accusers. And, if I fail to prove each one and all of 
those ten champions false, then let me be consigned to 
the rack and the stake, and my name to infamy, and my 
beloved and holy order to oblivion I” 

Again the people expressed their admiration in sup- 
pressed- murmurs. 

“The Church of God wars not with carnal weapons !” 
coldly replied De Prato, who, despite himself was moved 
by the chivalric and noble bearing of that bold old man. 
“ And, oh, bethink thee, knight, before thou dost embark 
in this desperate enterprise, how poorly thou art pre- 
pared, even were counsel allotted thee, to defend an 
order, which thou hast, thyself, accused of horrible 
crimes l” 

“Which I — 1 ) Jacques de Molai, chief of the Tem- 
plars, have accused?” fiercely interrupted the old sol- 
dier. 

“ Thou, Jacques de Molai, chief of the Templars,” was 
the reply. 

“ When ? — where? ” he furiously demanded. 

“On the night of the eighth day of August, 1808, in 
the Question Chamber of the Castle of Chinon,” said De 
Prato. 

“ ’Tis false — false as hell ! ” shouted de Molai. “ That 
night I remember well. I have some reason to remem- 
ber it well,” he added, with a bitter and significant 
smile, shaking his head. “For reasons which I then 
deemed wise and right, every charge against myself I 
admitted true, whatever that charge might be. If in 


THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 


305 


so doing I did unwisely, — ns often since I have feared, 

• — then, the good God forgive mcl But that I then or 
there, or at any time or anywhere, admitted any charge 
whatsoever against my beloved order — why, that is 
impossible ,” he added, with a bitter laugh, at the same 
time lowering his tone. “ But you can easily test that 
on the spot. Bring forth your instruments of torture 
and try me where I stand I ” 

“There is an easier mode by which to prove thee false, 
prisoner,” said the Cardinal. “ Let the record of the con- 
fession of J acques de Molai at the Castle of Chinon be 
read ! ” 

The clerk immediately rose and began reading the 
record. Every crime there confessed by De Molai 
against himself was so interpolated and falsified as to 
have become an admission of charges against the whole 
or'ler, and against all its members ! 

Overwhelmed with indignation and wonder, De Molai 
remained silent while the reading was going on, but 
repeatedly crossed himself and raised his eyes to 
Heaven. 

“Jacques de Molai,” said the Cardinal, when the doc- 
ument had been completed, together with the names of 
the Grand Inquisitor and his two assistants, by whom it 
was subscribed— “ to this — your confession, what say 
you? ” 

“ Were I -free, and were the men whose names are 
subscribed to that paper anything but priests,” replied 
the knight in low tones, “ I should say nothing, I 
should act ! ” 


806 


THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 


“ Do you deny tlie truth of this record ? ” 

“ Most unquestionably I do ; and most unqualifiedly I 
do, also, here declare those men to be liars and forgers, 
and richly meriting the fate inflicted on such criminals 
by Tartars and Saracens, — whose hearts they tear out, 
and whose heads they strike oft* I ” 

At these words the multitude burst into admiring 
and indignant shouts. 

“ The session is adjourned ! ” cried Dc Prato, rising 
in alarm with the whole council. “ Guards, look to your 
prisoner ! ” 

***** 

And the noble old warrior was conducted to his dun- 
geon, and his cowardly assailants repaired to the Palace 
of the Temple to confer with the King. 


THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 307 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 
IIILIP the Fourth of France was a bold, energetic 



I and despotic prince ; but he was, also, a wise and 
politic one. 

lie knew his people well. He knew well what they 
would endure, and he knew well what they would not 
endure. He had reason to know. His wisdom had 
been bought by a somewhat dear experience. 

By the death of his father, Philip the Third, or, the 
Hardy , in 1285, he ascended the throne of France, being 
then only in his seventeenth year; and, from that hour 
to the hour of his death, never w r as royal prerogative 
more sternly sustained than by him. It was to sustain 
the prerogatives of a Sovereign of France that he did 
battle, for five full years, with Edward the First of 
England ; to sustain those same prerogatives, he waged a 
bloody war, for eight years longer, with Guy, Count of 
Flanders ; and, again, to maintain those prerogatives, even 
against the spiritual supreme of Christendom, he braved 
all the thunders of the Vatican, for seven full years, in a 
contest which only ceased with the terrible death of his 
foe, — or, more properly, his victim. 

But this incessant warfare, though invariably success- 
ful, was expensive, and involved the enterprising mon- 
arch in extreme financial embarrassment. To relieve 


308 THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 


this, he had recourse to the usual resort of princes at 
that era, in such emergencies : — he debased the coin of 
his realm, and, at the same time, enhanced its nominal 
v alue. To such “shameful and ridiculous excess ” was 
this debasement and enhancement carried, that one denier 
of the stamp of 1300 was worth three deniers of the 
stamp of 1306; and, yet, under severest penalties, he 
commanded all men to receive the base coin at the same 
value as the true ! But there was a scarcity of precious 
metal as well as of coin. To obviate this, he forced all 
his subjects, the barons and prelates only excepted, to 
bear one-llalf of all their silver plate to the mint! The 
exportation of gold and the hoarding of specie were 
declared capital crimes! Imposts were enormous, and 
the direct tax on each individual was one-fifth part of 
all his revenue; while five hundred livres of income 
paid twenty-five livres tax ! 

The unhappy Hebrews presented to Philip, as to every 
other Prince of Europe of that age, another, and a most 
fruitful source of plunder, of which he scrupled not to 
avail himself; and, at length, in the year 1305, came the 
grand blow upon this injured people. An ordinance — 
(like that subsequently against the Templars) — was 
issued upon special permission of Clement Fifth, by 
which every Jew in the realm was arrested, at the hour 
of noon, on the festival of St. Madelaine, when all were 
on their knees in their synagogues: and every man was 
banished the kingdom, — forbidden to return under pen- 
alty of immediate execution, — and suffered to take with 
him no more of his effects than would defray his expenses 


THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 309 


to the frontiers. Many of the poor wretches perished 
by the way; some few loved their gold better than 
their lives and some loved their lives better than their 
religion, and received the baptismal sign; but all were 
reduced to abject poverty, and, of course, as their sole 
recompense, every Hebrew of them all cursed Philip the 
Fourth of France by Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, 
and all the patriarchs and prophets of the old Testa- 
ment, to their very* soul’s content! And it is quite 
probable that there did not come a single curse amiss! * 
But the Jews were not the only people in France who 
cursed Philip le Bel. His own subjects, — Frenchmen, — 
descendants of the stern old Gauls, and but a few cen- 
turies removed, — cursed him for his extortions and 
cruelties. At length came an erneute — an insurrection, 
— “ a three-days ” — a Revolution, exactly as is always 
the case, at a moment it was least apprehended ! The • 
Palace of the Louvre was, of course, as in more modern 
revolutions, — the first place assailed, and Philip, like his 
descendants of the same name of more recent date, — was 
besieged and exposed to every insult and indignit}^. But, 
unlike the Philip of the Nineteenth Century, Philip le 
Bel sallied out from his stronghold with his men-at-arms 
clad in steel, at his back, and he swept the streets at 
once of the poor varlets that had rebelled; and, hanged 
twenty-eight of the first he could catch, as high as 
TIaman, at the city gates, as a terror to the rest! And 

* The history of the Hebrews in France, in the Fourteenth Century, is full 
of horrible interest. The persecutions to which they were subjected are 
almost incredible. 


310 THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 

so efficient was this terror, that all of the residue slunk 
away into their work-shops, and betook themselves to 
their toil, as if nothing had happened, and never after 
dared whisper a syllable about extortion, however ex- 
tortionate it might prove ! 

But Philip was a politic prince, and a wise one. He 
knew it would not be always thus, and he immediately 
assembled tlie States General to relieve the grievances 
of which his people complained, and because of which 
they had revolted. 

The same course he pursued in the provinces as in 
Paris. Normandy revolted because of an oppressive 
tax. He quelled the revolt, and hung up a dozen or 
two of the rebels, and then — repealed the tax ! 

As for the Templar- Knights, whatever Philip’s motive 
for their unjust and iniquitous persecution, — whether 
avarice, — apprehension, or revenge, — he certainly had 
done all in his power to make his people believe them 
guilty of all the crimes of which they were accused : and, 
quite as certainly, he had, to a deplorable extent, been 
successful. 

The death of thirty-six Templars on the rack, in the 
dungeons of Paris, affected the citizens but little. That 
scene they had not witnessed. But they had witnessed 
the execution of fifty-nine Templars, at the stake, in the 
field of St. Antoine, and they had murmured. And now 
Philip was informed that murmurs loud and deep had 
been heard at the Cathedral of Notre Dame, during the 
examination of Jacques de Molai, by the Papal Com- 
mission. It was plain the populace sympathized with 


THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 311 


that chivalric old warrior. Like themselves, he was 
unlearned in laws and unskilled in letters; and, from 
their very hearts, notwithstanding all their prejudices, 
they longed to see him on his war-horse, — as he him- 
self prayed, with his mail on his majestic form, and 
his dreadful falchion in his hand, mowing down all 
assailants, right or wrong. 

What was Philip to do ? Design his purpose he 
would not, — pursue it just then he dared not. He 
resolved to temporize. The Papal Commission met the 
next day and adjourned for five whole months. 

On that same day issued from the Palace of the Tem- 
ple letters-patent to the Templars, throughout all France, 
who desired to defend their order, to convene at Paris 
during the month of March ensuing. 

In accordance with this summons, large numbers of 
the knights, who had been imprisoned in the provinces, 
repaired to Paris; and, on Monday, April 11th, 1310, 
nine hundred of the Templars being assembled, they 
selected seventy-five to superintend their defense, at the 
head of whom were Raynaud of Orleans and John de 
Boulogne, the Attornejr General of the order — the Grand 
Master not being suffered to be present. 

The trial now formally commenced in the Cathedral 
Church of Notre Dame, in the presence of immense mul- 
titudes of spectators, by the publication of the commis- 
sion of the Sovereign Pontiff, under which the council 
sat, and the articles of inquiry, on which the accused 
were to be interrogated. Examination of witnesses 
immediately commenced, and up to the evening of May 


812 THE, POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 

11th, just one montli from that commencement, only 
fourteen had been examined. But sufficient had trans- 
pired during this month to convince the accused that, 
from tliis commission, they could expect no justice. On 
the morning of the 12th, therefore, John de Boulogne, in 
the name and behalf of the order, presented a memorial* 
in which was declared — That the charges preferred 
against the order were infamous, detestable, abomina- 
ble, and horribly false, — fabricated by apostates, liars and 
forgers, who were avowedly their foes ; that the religion 
of the Temple was pure and unpolluted, and utterly 
exempt from all the abominations with which it had 
been charged, and that they who dared maintain the 
reverse were worse than heretics and infidels ; that it 
could not, for an instant, be supposed that any man 
would remain connected with an order, which ensured 
the loss of his soul, and that order was composed ot 
gentlemen of the most illustrious families in Europe, 
who would, surely, never have continued members, or 
even have continued silent, — had they known, seen, 
heard-of, or suspected the infamous abominations with 
which it had been charged. Finally, the bold, and 
eloquent Knight- Advocate declared that he and his fol- 
lowers were resolved to maintain the honor of their 
beloved order at the sacrifice of life ; — that they appealed 
from all provincial synods, or papal commissions, to the 
Sovereign Pontiff,* and demanded liberty to attend a 
General Council, to the end that they might, in the 


* Dupuy. 


THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 313 

presence of the Holy Father himself, their * spiritual 
supreme, maintain their innocence. 

When the Attorney General of the order had con- 
cluded, Tonsard de Gisi, one of the most intrepid and 
chivalric men of. that or of any age, stepped forward. 

“Tonsard de Gisi, do you defend this order?” asked 
the Cardinal. 

“I do,” sternly replied De Gisi. “I defend it in mine 
own name, and in the name of all my companions; — I 
defend it against every charge adduced by its enemies, 
and T demand the assistance of counsel in this defense, 
and a sufficiency from the coffers of the Temple to 
meet the expense, which that defense may involve.” 

“ Tonsard de Gisi, have you not confessed yourself 
guilty of infamous crimes?” demanded the Cardinal. 

“By command of our Grand Master, whom next to 
God we revere and obey, I have, in common with him 
and with all the best and purest knights of our order, 
confessed myself guilty of crimes, — impossible crimes — - 
of which he, and they, and myself, are equally and 
utterly innocent.”* 

The Cardinal started at this bold declaration but 
continued. 

“Were you put to the torture?” he asked. 

“ Not only myself, but all with me in the dungeons of 
the Louvre were subjected to every torture which those 
fiends, William Imbert, Inquisitor General, William du 
Plessis, a monk of St. Dominic, and Hexian de Beziers, 


* Americ de Villiers had confessed on the rack his personal presence 
and participation in the crucifixion of the Saviour! Villani . 


314 THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 

Prior of * Montfau^on, — an apostate Templar, who, long 
ago, had his cloak stripped from his back by our Grand 
Master, and was condemned to perpetual imprisonment 
for infamous crimes, — all the tortures, I say, which 
those fiends could invent, or inflict. Thirty-six noble 
and intrepid knights died in their hands, in the prisons 
of Paris; and multitudes, besides, expired on their racks 
in all of the provinces.” 

The people looked on each other in terror and dis- 
may. 

“Kemove the prisoner, guards,” cried De Prato, “and 
bring forward the next.” 

The Cardinal was promptly obeyed, and Bernard de 
Yado, another distinguished knight of the order, who 
had recanted his confession, was produced. The tenor 
of his demands and declarations, and of his answers to 
interrogatories was much that rehearsed in the examina- 
tion of his immediate predecessor; but, when the ques- 
tion was asked — “Were you put to the torture?” — he 
thrust his manacled hand with difficulty into his bosom, 
and, producing a handful of small white bones, he 
advanced with halting steps to the table, and laid them 
rattling before the council. • 

“Behold the proof,” he exclaimed, with flashing eyes. 
“ The flesh of my feet was consumed by slow fire, and 
those fragments fell off.” 

At this fearful sight a groan arose from the vast 
assemblage. Even the Cardinals were shocked, and 
they quailed before the fierce glance of that injured 
and innocent man; while murmurs of indignation ran 


THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 315 

through the immense multitudes that thronged the 
Cathedral. 

“The council is adjourned!” cried De Prato instantly, 
rising from his chair, 

* * * * * 

Philip le Bel was a politic prince, and Cardinal de 
Prato was a no less politic prelate ! 

* * , * * * * 

20 ' * 


m 


THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 

T O detail all the proceedings of the Papal Commis- 
sion appointed to examine the Templar Knights, 
in the Cathedral Church at Paris, — their numberless 
adjournments and re- assemblings — their iniquitous con- 
nivance with Philip and his Ministers for the de- 
struction of the fated and hated order, and the active 
exertions of Blanche of Artois, who, throughout the 
whole, continued the very soul of the persecution; as 
well as the vacillation and yielding of the Pontiff, during 
a period of several months comprising all the winter of 
1310, and a portion of the spring of the following year, 
would prove as needless as it would be tedious. 

Suffice it to say that, between the date of the first 
meeting of the Commission, on the 7tli day of August, 
1310, until its final adjournment, on the 26th day of 
May, 1311, no less than two hundred and twenty-one 
depositions, rs touching the charges against the order, 
had been filed, of which one hundred and fifty were 
those of Templars. The large proportion of the latter 
asserted their innocence; many of the most intrepid 
expired in their dungeons, from the effects of the tor- 
tures to which they had been subjected and a protracted 
confinement in a poisonous atmosphere ; while those 


THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 


317 


with whom it was deemed dangerous to heal, chief 
among whom were Tonsard de Gisi and Bernard de 
Y ado, — were not suffered to appear and bear witness for 
their order at all. 

The great mass of testimony against the order was 
taken from the lips of most infamous apostates, whose 
vile characters, apart entirely from the numberless con- 
tradictions in their absurd and abominable statements, 
should have divested them of the slightest credence. 
Such now, indeed, was the only evidence, inasmuch as 
every knight at all recognized as a companion had fully 
recanted all confessions of crime, and asserted his in- 
nocence. Among the witnesses whose testimony was 
deemed of weight was that of Raoul de Presle, an advo- 
cate of the King’s court, whose deposition alone, of all 
those taken, is still of record and extant ; yet that sim- 
ply details a conversation with a Templar, who told 
deponent that he would sooner lose his head than 
reveal the strange occurrences which transpired in the 
nocturnal conclaves of the order ; and that, in the Grand 
Chapter, there was one secret so sacred, that were any 
person, not a member, by any chance to become 
acquainted therewith, the Templars would surely put 
him to death I* 

At the close of the Papal Commission two copies of 
the entire record of their proceedings embodying all the 
depositions were engrossed on parchment, one of which 
was deposited in the treasury of the Cathedral of Notre 
Dame, the other forwarded to the Sovereign Pontiff, f 


* Dupuy. 


f Vertot; also Fleuri. 


818 


THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 


To decide justly on the fate of the order upon the 
facts set forth in this record, — absurd and contradictory 
as they were, — Clement found impossible, even had lie 
been so disposed. But he was not so disposed ; he was 
not disposed, indeed, to decide the question at all, and 
he had no idea of relieving his hated coadjutator from 
the responsibility he had voluntarily assumed, or to per- 
mit to be forced upon himself a decree involving the 
abolition of an order, the persecution of which, from 
the very first, against all his efforts, with extreme reluc- 
tance, he had been compelled, by Philip of France, to 
countenance. 

In this painful emergency, Clement consulted his 
friend, the Cardinal de Prato, who, anticipating this 
embarrassment from the commencement, had taken his 
measures accordingly. Turning over the leaves of the 
record of the Commission, he pointed to the appeal of 
John de Boulogne to the Pope, and his demand, in the 
name of the order, for a General Council of all the Pre- 
lates of the Church at which his Holiness himself should 
preside. Upon this appeal and demand, the council had 
purposely taken no action. It was, therefore, an open 
question, and both appeal and demand might now be ' 
granted, thereby relieving the Papal See of the responsi- 
bility so much dreaded, yet so insiduously and pertina- 
ciously forced upon it by the King of France. 

Gladly and gratefully did Clement avail himself of this 
suggestion, and immediately issued a bull, convening a 
General Council at Vienne, in Dauphiny, near Lyons, on 
the 18th day of October next ensuing : and, inasmuch as 


THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 


819 


the Templars had appealed to such council and to the 
Pope, all knights who designed defending their order 
were solemnly cited then and there to be present ; while 
throughout all Christendom was proclaimed the safe- 
guard of the Church to all Templars lying in conceal- 
ment, who might desire to defend their order on that 
occasion, — assuring them of entire freedom to come, to 
stay, to plead, — and to return, without let or hindrance, 
and that no infringement whatsoever on their liberties, 
or lives, should be perpetrated or permitted. 

In obedience to his proclamation, all the prelates of 
Europe, with the Sovereign Pontiff, hastened to Vienne, 
as well as immense numbers of the .nobility, inferior 
clergy and people, whom the interest and novelty of the 
occasion drew to the spot.* 

On the morning of Friday, the 18th day of October, 
1311, — the anniversary of the arrest of the Templars 
four years before — the council assembled in the old 
Cathedral Church of Vienne, and proclamation was three 
times made by the heralds, wijli blast of trumpet, that 
all who would defend the Order of the Templars should 
then and there appear. 

At the third proclamation and sound of trumpet, the 
multitudes around the Cathedralrporch parted their 
ranks, and nine chevaliers o.f the Temple, in the full 
costume and armor of the order, galloped up. Dis- 
mounting, they at once entered the church, and, remov- 

* Not less than three hundred Bishops constituted this Council, exclusive 
of Cardinals. The Patriarchs of Alexandria and of Antioch and the Abbes, 
and Priors, were, also, present. Briand de Lagnieu was then Archbishop of 
Vienne. 


320 


THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 


ing tlieir steel caps from their heads, and bending one 
knee before that venerable and imposing assemblage of 
all the Primates of the Church, with the Sovereign Pon- 
tiff at their head, arrayed in the gorgeous vestments of 
the Catholic priesthood and flashing with gems, — they 
announced the purpose of their coming. That purpose 
was to defend the Order of the Temple against any and 
all assailants, in any manner that the Council might 
deem fit; and they came under the safe guard of the 
Church, in behalf of two thousand Templar-Knights, who 
now, for a period of four years, since the general arrest 
of October, 1307, had been wanderers among the cliffs 
and caves of the Cevennes, in the mountain province 
of Lyonnais. 

The effect of the sudden appearance of this armed 
deputation so unexpected, from a body of knights so 
large, and of whose very existence the foes of the order 
had never dreamed, may be imagined. 

Their reception by the Pope was respectful but 
guarded. lie suggested to them the propriety of laying 
aside their arms and armor, and presenting themselves, 
at a future day, of which they would receive due notifi- 
cation, in their white robes of peace. The council, hav- 
ing then been formally opened, adjourned, with the 
notice that their next session would be devoted to a 
consideration of the general interests of the Church. 

****** 

That night a swift courier left Vienne for Paris, with * 
a dispatch from tlie Pope to the King, detailing the 


THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 


321 


events of the day, and the important facts it had dis- 
closed. 

The object of Clement in deferring the cause of the 
Templars for consideration of the general interests of the 
Church was, doubtless, to gain time for consultation with 
Philip on the new phase that cause had assumed. 

But, if it were so, very little occasion had he to felici- 
tate himself upon the alternative he had selected; for, at 
the very next session of the council, memorials concern- 
ing the vices and irregularities of the clergy were pre- 
sented by two aged prelates of Franco, which struck 
horror even into the soul of the Sovereign Fontiflf him- 
self. These memorials set forth, that the grossest igno- 
rance and depravity existed among all orders of the 
clergy; that the arch-deacons inflicted the sentence of 
excommunication for offenses the most trivial, and from 
motives the most corrupt, and that in a single parish not 
less than seven hundred were under that awful ban; that 
the canons were guilty of most unpriestly demeanor in 
celebration of the service; that monks quitted their 
cloisters to attend fairs and markets, at which they were 
themselves hucksters, and mingled in all the vices of the 
throng ; that nuns wore silks and furs, and dressed their 
hair in the style of the Court, and frequented balls, con- 
certs, tournaments and all public places, and walked the 
streets even at night; that the Papal See itself was the 
seat of despotism, cupidity and licentiousness, where 
money alone could ensure preferment, whence ignorant 
and depraved men obtained the highest stations, and dis- 
honored religion by the irregularity of their lives; that 


322 


THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 


incontinence was so universal that brothels existed 
beside the very walls of churches, and beneath even 
those of the Papal Palace , and finally — horror of hor- 
rors! — that the Holy Father himself had notoriously 
intrigued with a lady of rank, who was another’s wife !* 

The consternation, — terror, — amazement, — wrath of 
the Council of Prelates may be imagined upon the pre- 
sentation and reading of charges like these. Even those 
against the persecuted Templars could with these main- 
tain favorable comparison. To arrest the reading of the 
memorials when the clerks had once commenced was, of 
course, impossible, even had his Holiness so desired, 
which he did not, until the last terrible sentence had left 
their lips. He then instantly arose and adjourned the 
council ; and, when it was again convened, which was 
not until the 11th of November, Clement was glad to 
avail himself of the exciting cause of the Templars, or 
any other cause, to engross the minds of the council, and 
divert attention from the late disgraceful developments, 
lie was willing to rush upon any Charybdis, however 
threatening, to escape the Scylla upon whose rocks he 
was so near being wrecked. But the purpose of his 
delay had been accomplished, — he had received letters 
from Philip of France. 

The first step in the consideration of the cause of the 
Templars was the reading of the entire record of the 
proceedings of the Papal Commission at Par.'s. This 

* This is of record. Those who doubt can consult Fleury’s Ecclesiastical 
History, in which the Memorials are set forth at length ; or, a quotation there- 
from in Gifford’s France. The Countess of Perigord, daughter to the Count of 
Foix, a lady of high rank and exquisite fascinations, is said to have enslaved 
Clement. 


THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 


823 


having been completed, the Pope proposed individually, 
to the council, consisting of more than three hundred 
mitred priests from all the nations of Europe, the ques- 
tion — “ Whether an order charged with such enormous 
crimes, sustained by the testimony of two thousand 
witnesses, should not cease to exist?”* And, to this 
interrogatory, each one of the prelates, and each one of 
the doctors of law, of all that vast council, replied that, 
previous to a decree which abolished a most illustrious 
order, established by pious men, confirmed by the Papal 
See and a General Council, and which, for two hundred 
years, had been the champion of the Church, it was 
demanded by justice and religion that the chiefs of the 
Templars should be heard in its defence, — each one of 
that vast assemblage of pious and learned men said this, 
— each prelate of France, and Italy, and Spain, and Ger- 
many,. and Denmark, and England, and Scotland, and 
•Ireland, — each one, save only a single bishop from Italy; 
and from France the Archbishops of Kouen, and Rheims, 
and Sens, — the last named being Philip de Marigni, the 
brother of Enguerrand de Marigni, who had received 
his elevation to a prelacy from the King expressly to 
persecute the Temple, and who had committed fifty-nine 
of the fated order to the flames in the field of St. 
Antoine as already stated. 

By these four men it was contended that ample oppor- 
tunity had already been afforded the Templars for their 
defence, and no new fact could be elicited by the most 
protracted examination. 


* Life of Clement V. 


824 


THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 


The next question proposed by the Pope to the coun- 
cil was this — “Shall the Deputies of the Templars who 
have presented themselves be heard?” The decision was 
similar to the former, with the same number of dissent- 
ing votes, — “They shall!” 

Instantly upon this decision, Clement declared the 
session closed; and the council adjourned until the third 
day of April, 1812 ; and that same night, by his order, 
the deputation of the Templars, in defiance of every prin- 
ciple of faith, humanity and justice, were seized, loaded 
with chains and thrown into prison, — a more atrocious 
and unheard-of act of perfidy than which the annals of 
history have no record, and which, to the honor of the 
Council of Yienne, was, by the pious prelates who com- 
posed it, most loudty, justly and indignantly denounced! 

But Clement Fifth had received letters of advice from 
“his dear son, the King of France!” And on the 22nd 
day of February, suddenly, without prior announcement, 
appeared at Yienne, Philip le Bel , accompanied by his 
brother, the Count of Yalois, his sons, the King of 
Navarre, the Counts of Marche and Poitiers, with all 
his Ministry, Clergy, and Court and a strong body of 
troops. And one of this splendid suite was Blanche of 
Artois. 

One month from the date of that sudden arrival, being 
Good Friday, Clement assembled a select number of pre- 
lates in secret eonsistory, and there, in the plentitude of 
Papal pow’er, which he declared should supply all defects 
of form, he pronounced a decree of abolition against the 
Order of the Temple. 


THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 


825 


On the 3rd of April, pursuant to adjournment, the 
council sat. On the right hand of Clement appeared 
Philip of France, — on his left Charles of Valois, — •'’before 
him the King of Navarre and the Counts of Marche and 
Poitiers, with the whole French Court. Clergy and Min- 
istry, and all around a powerful array of royal troops. 

Clement then rose and read the decree of annulment 
with a firm voice, and thus concluded: 

“AVe do, therefore, by virtue of Apostolic power to 
us, as God’s vicegerent, entrusted, pronounce the Older 
of Templar Knights provisionally suppressed and abol- 
ished,* reserving to the Holy See, and to the Church of 
Rome, the ultimate disposal of the persons and posses- 
sions of its members. Amen I And this council is 
dissolved.” 

And the council was dissolved: and, without a word 
or sign, in ominous silence, each man went his way ! 


*The Order of the Templars was annulled 181 years after its confirmation by 
the Council of Troyes, in 1128. 


326 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


B ERTRAND de Goth, Pope Clement Fifth, was a 
weak man. 

Philip le Bel , fourth sovereign of that name in France, 
was not a weak man. 

Both were bad men. 

But the strong man had obtained, by means of the 
weak one, as is ever the case, in the long run, all that he 
originally designed; while the weak man had, in reality, 
accomplished none of his purposes, nor prevented the 
accomplishment of any of those of his rival, however 
much they had clashed with his own, or however 
strongly he had vowed, or desperately striven against 
them. 

Philip of France had sworn the abolition of the hated 
Order of the Red- Cross Knights. Ilis oath was fulfilled. 

Clement Fifth had decreed, — had been forced to 
decree, — the abolition of this order, but he had done it 
with the salvo that with himself should rest the ulti- 
mate disposal of the persons and possessions of its mem- 
bers. But the persons of four of its Grand Officers were 
in the dungeons of Philip, and all of their immense 
estates in France were in his hands. And thus was it 
to the end. “Philip declined,” says history, “to part 
with the Temple effects, until he should have reim- 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


327 


bursed liimself for the vast expenditure he had incurred 
in suppressing the order ; and that period never came ! 
Of course, it never came ! 

In Spain and Aragon, the Templar estates were given 
the order of Our Lady of Montesa, founded in 1317, and 
were appropriated chiefly to the extirpation of the 
Moors, who still held Granada. In Castile, they became 
a royal appanage. In Portugal, good King Denis left 
the Templars in quiet possession under their new name, — 
11 Knights, of Christ.” In Sicily, Charles the Second 
grasped the real estate, and resigned the personal property 
of the victims to his Holiness. In Germany, the Teu- 
tonic Knights shared the spoils of their persecuted 
brothers with the Knights of the Hospital. In England, 
alone, was the final decree of Clement at all observed, 
and the revenues of the martyred Templars secured to 
the White-Cross Knights, — or the Knights of Rhodes, 
a a they now were called ; for, on the 15th day of August, 
1310, while the unhappy Grand Master of the Templars 
was before the Papal Commission at Paris, the more for- 
tunate Fulk de Villaret, Grand Master of the Hospita- 
lers, with his war- galleys was capturing the Island of 
Khodes !* 

It is a pleasant reflection, after all, then, one which 
may be safely indulged, that Clement never actually 

* The Knights of the Hospital, or the White-cross Knights, in 1310 took the 
title Knights of Rhodes ; and subsequently, when the Island of Malta became 
the seatof the order, —Knights of Malta. When the estates of the Templars were 
given to the Hospitalers, one order seems to have become merged into tin? 
other : and the white mantle and red-cross became a black mantle and white- 
cross. At the present day, the degrees of Templar Knight and Knight of 
Malta are conferred in succession, and at the same time. The Templar cos- 
tume is lost, but the name remains, and the degree takes precedence of its 
ancient rival and conqueror. 


328 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


enjoyed the bribe for which he had sold his infamous 
decree; and that the Knights of tbe White-Cross pro- 
fited comparatively but little by the unjust destruction of 
their rival brothers of the Red, although immense sums 
of money and vast estates once belonging to the Temple 
fell into their hands. In 1316, the Bishop of Limisso, in 
Cyprus, transferred to the Hospitalers, by order of the 
Pope, 26,000 bezants of coined gold, found in the Pre- 
cep tory, and silver plate to the value of 1,500 marks, — 
all of which enormous wealth must have accumulated 
within a period of ten years; for, in 1307, as we have 
seen, De Mo}ai, by order of Clement, had borne all the 
treasure of the order to Paris. 

And Blanche of Artois, — she had, indeed, exulted at 
the abolition of the hated order ; but, Jacques de Molai 
yet lived, and her vengeance was but half-appeased. 
The pale shade of her beloved Adrian still pursued her, 
go she whither she might. The vengeance of the King 
was satiated by the abolition of an order which he abho- 
rcd ; — the avarice of the Pope was satisfied by revenues 
and estates which lie thouyht already in his grasp, and 
each and both were now most anxious to justify in the 
eyes of indignant Christendom the persecution they had 
so long and so implacably pursued. 

The fate of the Grand Officers of the abolished order 
was reserved to the Papal See; and Clement and Philip 
^agreed in the resolution that, provided those men adhered 
to the confession extorted at Chinon, and thus justified all 
their own acts of persecution before the indignant na- 
tions, that their punishment should be commuted from 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


329 


the stake to perpetual imprisonment. But the rigor of 
this imprisonment was now greatly mollified. The 
accused were no longer immured in the dungeons of the 
Temple, but confined in its Toivers ; and not only were 
they permitted to share each others captivity, but to 
receive the visits of distinguished knights of their abol- 
ished order from distant cities. Among their visitors 
was the chief of the Templars at Cyprus, — John Mark 
Amienius — who, for a month, shared their imprisonment. 

The object of this decided amelioration was plain. 
The order being now abolished, it was indispensable to 
Philip that he might remove the odium he had incurred 
by its persecution, that the Grand Officers should confess 
its enormities. This done, he cared not for their fate, — 
nay, he would, gladly even, commute a sentence of death 
at the stake to mild imprisonment, if not to complete 
and speedy enlargement. For his soul, he began to feel, 
was charged with too much of their blood already ! 

But with Blanche of Artois it was not so. All that was 
gentle, — all that was amiable, — all that was mild and lov- 
ing in her bosom, was extinct. Hate — revenge — reigned 
there and ruled supreme. Oh, how different was she now 
from that fair — young — lovely — tender being, which but a 
few years ago we first saw her! Her very nature seemed 
changed. She was no more what she had been. Then, 
she was an angel of gentleness and love, — now, alas ! 
she was a fury of vengeance and hate ! To her insati- 
ate soul it was not enough that the hated Order of the 
Temple was no more ; the still more hated Grand Mas- 
ter of the Temple must share its fate. 


330 THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 

* # * -Jfr * * 

Oil the morning of Monday, the 18th day of March, 
1314, there stood in the Place du Parvis, in front of the 
porch of the Cathedral Church of Notre Dame of Paris, a 
lofty scaffold. In front was erected a huge pile of fag- 
ots around a stake, and, in all the court, swarmed the 
people of Paris. At one extremity of the scaffold sat 
Philip de Marigni, Archbishop, of Sens, while, on his 
right hand and his left, sat*a Cardinal Legate of the 
Sovereign Pontiff, with the Bishop of Alba, deputed to 
assist at the ceremony now to proceed. 

Before this council and this assemblage, after some 
delay, were brought, — surrounded by a powerful force, 
the Grand Master of the Temple and the three Grand 
Priors, who, for a period of six years, had been immured 
in the dungeons of Paris. The confessions of Chinon 
were then read by the Bishop of Alba, and a long and 
elaborate sermon was delivered to the multitude, in which 
the enormities there admitted were dwelt on with pecu- 
liar force. In conclusion, the Legate called upon the 
Grand Officers there to renew those confessions and be 
pardoned, or to refuse:— and before them stood the 
stale e fully prepared for the sacrifice. 

Intimidated by the menaces of the Legate, the Grand 
Priors of Prance and Acquitaine complied with the 
condition proposed. 

But not so, — oh, not so, was it with that noble old 
man, Jacques de Molai, or his worthy companion, Guy, 
Prior of Normandy. Kesolutely and calmly they retained 
their seats, while their fellow -sufferers renewed their 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


331 


confessions. This done, and the two Grand Templars 
yet remaining motionless, the Archbishop of Sens cried 
in a loud voice : 

“Jacques de Molai, in the name of the Iloly Church, 
and on pain of your immediate execution, at yonder 
stake, I call upon you, before this cloud of witnesses, to 
renew your recanted confession at Chinon, — I call on 
you to proclaim, your shame and crime, and thereby to 
* merit the clemency of your royal master ; and thereby to 
prove, also, beyond a doubt, to all the world, the justice 
of your punishment and that of your iniquitous fra- 
ternity ! ” 

Firmly and calmly, De Molai rose from his seat, and 
slightly bowing to the Archbishop and the Legates, as 
he passed them, he advanced, with lofty bearing and 
majestic step, to the edge of the platform. 

Every eye in that vast assemblage was fixed with 
awe, yet compassion, on that venerable man; and, in 
hushed and breathless silence they listened for the first 
syllables of that confession of guilt which was to save 
him from the awful doom now full before him: and they 
thought that never — never had they looked upon a more 
grand and imposing form. 

Raising his manacled arms, and spreading out his 
hands over the heads of that countless multitude, as 
if bestowing upon them his patriarchal benediction, for 
some moments he stood silent. 

“People of France! — citizens of Paris !” he, at 
length, exclaimed, in those deep and thunder-tones, 
which had so often been heard above the horn and the 
21 


332 


THE PEOrLE OF PARIS. 


cymbal — tlie atabal and the' trumpet, — above all the 
clash of barbaric music, and the clang of steel, and the 
roar of Paynim battle,— “ People of France!— citizens 
of Paris ! — hear me, and understand ! Through you, to 
all Europe, — to all Christendom, — to all the world, — to 
unborn ages, I speak! Hear and record my words* T 
am commanded to confess my guilt and to condemn my 
order. Most humbly, — most penitently, — with sorrow 
and with shame, — in the presence of God and of man, — 
to my own undying ignominy, do I confess that I have 
been guilty of the blackest of all crimes !” 

The old man paused. The prelates looked at each 
other with evident satisfaction, and the great mass of the 
people seemed, — also, gratified, — they seemed relieved 
from the apprehension of the fearful doom which 
impended over the Templar’s refusal to confess. There 
were, however, some few who turned away with disap- 
pointment and discontent. They had not expected this. 

“Yes, people of Paris,” continued the Grand Master, 
elevating his sonorous voice, so as to be heard in the 
remotest corner of that spacious square, “ I confess 
inyself guilty of the blackest of crimes, by my confes- 
sion of crime in the Castle of Chinou of which I was 
never guilty!” 

Had a thunderbolt fallen from the blue sky of that 
wintry day into the midst of that vast assemblage, a 


* And they < lid record liis words! It Is a noticeable fact that Vertot. Vil- 
lani, Dupuy, Fleury, and all other historians, whether Protestant or Catholic, 
ascribe the same sentiments to this speech of l)e Molai, and almost the same 
words; and, now, agreeably t<> his wish, more than live centuries after they 
were uttered, they justify his memory, and the character of an order which - 
juore than his life he loved l 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


333 


greater shock cOuld hardly have been experienced. The 
prelates seemed stunned with amazement. 

“The blackest of crimes!” reiterated the Templar; 
“because, by that confession of my own ignominy, I, 
Grand Master of the Temple* thereby entailed disgrace 
on my pure, and holy, and most beloved order! God 
forgive! God forgive! For, oh, — it was to save that 
order, and, with the vain hope of redeeming my perse- 
cuted sons from the same agonies of torture I then 
endured, that the confession of guilt was made. But 
now — now,” he shouted in loud, distinct, yet rapid tones, 
— “now — in this last moment of my life, and with the 
full knowledge that this avowal consigns my body to 
immediate flames, — to all Paris, to all Christendom, to 
all the world of man and before my God do I pronounce 
that confession utterly and absolutely false ! I pro- 
nounce all the charges against the pure and hallowed 
Order of the Temple base, and monstrous and infamous 
calumnies! I pronounce Philip of France a traitor to 
his people and his race, and Clement of Rome a traitor 
to his God ! ” 

“ Treason I treason ! ” shouted the Archbishop of 
Sens, leaping to his feet. 

“ Brave De Molai ! — brave De Molai ! ” screamed the 
people. 

“ Heresy ! — heresy ! ” — cried the Bishop * of Alba. 
“ Seize him — stop his mouth ! ” 

The guards sprang forward to obey, but before they 
could reach the Templar, his venerable companion, Guy, 
Prior of Normandy, his gray hair streaming to the 


334 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


winter blast and tlie 'chains upon his raised arms rat- 
tling as he moved, rushed forward and exclaiming : “ It 
is God*s truth ! — It is God’s truth ! ” — threw himself into 
the arms of his beloved chief. 

Supporting his aged companion on one arm while the 
other was still extended over the vast multitude, the 
lion- tones of that brave old Grand Master still continued 
to be heard, until both victims, locked in each other’s 
manacled embrace, were dragged down from the scaffold 
and hurried into the church. 

Oh, it was a sublime spectacle, — these aged and illus- 
trious Templars, thus, with their latest breath, pro- 
claiming the purity of their order, and, for that avowal, 
resigning their lives! 

But the prelates lied when they menaced their victims 
with instant conflagration at the stake before them, if 
they refused to confess. They had never designed it; 
and, if they had, they would have dared not attempt it, 
amid the tempest of indignation which now pervaded 
the vast concourse around. 

The prelates retired precipitately into the Cathedral 
as a retreat -they were glad to gain. 

The populace, thinking the Templar chiefs in the 
sanctuary, and for the present, at least, safe from violence, 
slowly dispersed to their homes ; and, in a few hours, the 
angry surges of popular rage had ceased to welter, and 
roar, and mutter, and dash, around that dark old pile. 
The aged prisoners were then committed to the Provost 
of Paris, who, conducting them through secret passages, 
conveyed them across the Seine to the dungeons of the 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


335 


Petit Chatelet, while the frightened priests escaped by 
;the same route, and, seeking the lower extremity of the 
Isle of the Cite , crossed the other arm of the Seine to 
the palace. 

From the summit of the tall central tower of the 
Louvre, Blanche of Artois, overlooking the intervening 
roofs, had distinctly beheld all that had transpired in the 
Place du Parvis of Notre Lame. She had watched the 
vast crowd, which, from the dawn of day, had poured in 
one unbroken stream over the two bridges connecting 
the Cite with the Universite and the ViUe, and which, 
disgorging itself through the various narrow streets and 
thoroughfares into the vast quadrangle, and up to the 
scaffold in froVit of the grand entrance of the Cathedral, 
and beneath the shadow of its ponderous and beetling 
towers, rushed and roared around the temporary struc- 
ture. She had beheld, at an early hour, the priestly Tri- 
umvirate ascend the platform in their ecclesiastical robes, 
girt by the dark cloud of their monkish servitors, and 
immediately followed by the fettered Templars, sur- 
rounded by glittering spears. The ceremonies which 
succeeded, she had, also, witnessed, and well compre- 
hended their significance, although, of course, not a syl- 
lable, at that distance, could reach her ear. With 
intense solicitude she continued to gaze, that she might 
witness the result, until, at length, the thunder-tones 
of the people shouting, “ Brave De Molai !— brave Do 
Molai!” sweeping on the blast told her that her fears 
were vain, — that her hopes — her confident expectations' 
were fulfilled ! 


836 


THE PEOPLE OF PARTS. 


“lie will perish !” she muttered, while a fiend* like 
exultation gleamed in her dark eye. “ Beloved Adrian, 
thy shade will, at last, be aveuged ! ” 

She was turning to descend, thinking all was over, 
when the wild and hurried scenes that succeeded caught 
her glance and arrested her attention. 

“Ha! the people!” she exclaimed. “They declare 
for the Templars! It is time then for me to act I No 
more delays ! ” 

And, hurrying down, she found Philip with his Min- 
isters, Be Marigni, De Nogarct, De Chatillon, and the 
Inquisitor already in close council on the events of 
which they had just been informed. They were shortly 
joined by the Archbishop and the Legates, in a state of 
excessive alarm, which they did not fail to communicate 
to their associates. 

Philip of Franco feared not foreign foes. His eques- 
trian statue in Notre Dame commemorated their inva- 
riable defeat. lie feared not the Sovereign Pontiff. Of 
this he had given abundant proof in three successive 
pontificates. He feared not — he had never feared his 
own nobility or clergy. lie feared not now the once 
mighty power of the Temple. He seemed hardly to fear 
God Himself; and he surely disregarded man. Yet, 
there was one thing , — an animate, — active, — powerful, 
— passionate, — ungovernable, — hydra-headed thing, that 
he did fear. That thing was — the people ! 

Philip the Fourth of France was a brave and wise 
prince ; and when all the details of the scene which that 
evening had transpired in the Parvis of Notre Dame 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


337 


were laid before liim, be paused and reflected, and asked 
his counsellors for counsel. 

This counsel was given, and by almost unanimous 
assent, the voice of De Marigni, who still bewailed the 
loss of a son which he considered as one more wrong, 
and the deepest from the hated order, alone dissenting. 
This counsel was the immediate announcement that the 
penalty of the contumacy of the Templar chiefs should 
be perpetual imprisonment. The certainty that the 
prisoners were not to be consigned to the flames, it was 
hoped, would allay the popular excitement. This deci- 
sion was strenuously opposed by De Marigni, who urged 
the infliction of the awful alternative with which the 
Templars had been menaced in event of recusancy, and 
he was still speaking when the door of the council- 
chamber opened, and, to the amazement of all, Blanche 
of Artois entered. 

Pale as death, — her long black hair hanging loosely 
around her face, and her large azure eyes filled with sig- 
nificant fire, the Countess of Marche, unannounced and 
uninvited, entered the secret council-chamber of the 
King of France. The Minister stopped short in his 
harangue, and all present gazed on this strange appari- 
tion with surprise. 

“You are astonished at this intrusion, Sire,” said 
Blanche, bowing low to the King ; “and it would, indeed, 
be an astonishing — an unheard-of thing, that even a 
princess of the blood should obtrude herself upon the 
private councils of the sovereign of France, did not 
extreme emergency, involving his dearest interests, — 


338 


THE PEOTLE OF PARIS. 


perhaps his crown, — perhaps his life,— demand, if not 
warrant it ! ” 

“ Ha ! ” cried Philip, springing to his feet. 

The counsellors looked at each other with doubt and 
dismay. 

“Goon, Blanche, go on I” continued the King, more 
calmly, at the same time resuming his seat. “ I have 
always deemed you my wisest counsellor. The event 
will prove me right, as a thousand times events have 
proven. Sit beside me and go on ! ” 

“With your permission, Sire,” rejoined the Countess, 
“I will proceed with the few words I have to say, and, 
with your permission, will remain standing. You know, 
Sire, your counsellors know, all Paris knows the events 
of this day, and especially of the past few hours in the 
Parvis of Notre Dame.” 

“The people are excited, my daughter,” said Philip, 
calmly. “But it will pass away.” 

“The agitation of the good people of Paris, Sire,” 
rejoined Blanche, “and the sympathy they manifest in 
the behalf of the convicted Templars is known to all: 
but the immediate consequence of that excitement and 
sympathy, — and the ultimate most probable result, — if 
measures are not at once adopted to prevent, all do not 
know.” 

“ Well, Blanche, go on,” said the King. 

“ There are many Templars in Paris, Sire, who have 
never been arrested, or even suspected,” continued the 
Countess. 

“ So I have always feared,” rejoined Philip. 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


339 


“These men have this day been active among the 
people.” 

“Ah, is it so ? ” said the King. 

“I have just received positive proof of what I advance, 
Sire,” continued the Countess, “ and, to declare it, I have 
obtruded upon your privacy.” 

“ This excitement mu^t be quieted,” rejoined the 
King, earnestly. “De Marigni, you are wrong.” 

“If the Templars again appear in public, they 
will be freed by a revolt of the people ! ” exclaimed the 
Countess. 

“ To-morrow the commutation of their sentence from 
the stake to temporary imprisonment shall be proclaimed 
throughout Paris,” responded the King, with energy. 

“That will not be, Sire,” calmly replied the Countess, 
repressing with difficulty the agitation this announce- 
ment inspired. 

“Indeed, Blanche!” exclaimed the King, with some 
surprise. “And why not ? ” 

“ Because, to-morrow the Templars will not be in your 
Majesty’s power, — will not be in Paris,” was the quiet 
response. 

“ Will not be in Paris ? ” cried Philip. 

“To-night, the Chatelet will be stormed, and the pris- 
oners released, and before the dawn they will be far on 
their flight, with their deliverers, to the border,” said 
Blanche. 

“ You are sure that the Chatelet will be assailed to- 
night, Blanche? ” asked the King. 

“I am sure,” was the brief answer. 


340 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


“ Then the Chatelet must be invested with troops 
without delay,” continued Philip. 

“And then your Majesty will again be in collision 
with your people. — will you not ? ” asked Blanche. 
“And many will be slain, as well as many of the troops, 
and months may elapse, or years even, before quiet is 
restored, if it ever is ! ” 

“ True, — most true,” was the moody response. “ It 
was so before. And all because of two old dotards, 
who will not adhere to a confession 

“ That, doubtless, is the cause,” replied the Countess, 
“ and were these old Templars removed, all would be 
well. It is to release these chiefs that their knights 
secretly plot and agitate. And, so long as they live, and 
are imprisoned, so long will there be intrigues and 
plots, and revolts for their release. Were they free all 
this would cease.” 

“No doubt, but to free them is clearly impossible. 
Besides, their power is still vast. Not a nation in Europe 
could, probably, even now withstand the united assault 
of these cowled warriors, with their Grand Officers at 
their head. The order is only nominally abolished as 
yet. No — no — to free them is impossible ! ” 

“ Were they dead , the result would be the same,” 
coolly rejoined the Countess. “ The agitation would 
cease.” 

“ Ila ! dead ! ” cried the King, starting. “ It would be 
so. But that, too, is now impossible to bring to pass, — 
at least at present.” 

“The alternative presented to the Templars to-day in 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


341 


the Parvis of Notre Dame was this, — to confess or to be 
burned, — was it not ? ” asked Blanche. 

The prelates bowed. 

“ Well, — two of these men did not confess ; and now, 
if they be not burned, the royal authority and that of 
the Sovereign Pontiff will fall into contempt, — will it 
not ! ” 

“ But, if they are burned, there will be a revolt of 
Paris ! ” cried the King, with evident vexation. “ Indeed, 
were but an attempt made to-morrow to burn these men, 
they would be released by the people, as you say.” 

“ To-morrow, doubtless,” quietly replied Blanche ; “ or, 
a week, or a month, or a year hence: but not — to - 
night ! ” 

“ To-night I ” cried Philip. “ Burn the Templars to- 
night ? ” 

The Councillors exchanged looks of astonishment. 

“ To-night, or never,” was the calm answer. 

“ But the people will release them ! ” 

“ The people have gone home.” 

“ They will re-assemble.” 

“Yes, around the Chatelet, at midnight.” 

The King sprang to his feet and paced the chamber in 
great perplexity. 

“ Surely,” he exclaimed, “ the people would at once 
reassemble were there an attempt to carry this sentence 
into execution, especially if the leaders of the people 
are on the watch, and have prepared them to assail the 
Chatelet at midnight! ” 

“The people would hardly gather in great numbers 


342 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


an hour hence, to witness an execution, quietly con- 
ducted, and of which, after the exciting events of the 
day, they did not even dream,” said Blanche; “and if 
they would, they could not, if that execution took place 
upon the uninhabited island of the Passeur aux vaches , 
in the middle of the Seine ! ” 

“ Ha ! ” cried the King with joy. “ Blanche is right, 
methinks ! Blanche is right ! What is your scheme, 
my daughter ? ” 

“ Briefly this, Sire : You wish France free of the Tem- 
plars. Yet were the Grand Officers free, France would be 
endangered. Efforts to free these men by agitating your 
people will not cease while they live. This very night 
such an effort is contemplated, which can only be 
quelled, if quelled at all it can bo, by the sacrifice of 
many of the citizens of Paris, and the agitation of all. 
If not quelled, and the attempt succeed, the worst con- 
sequences may be -apprehended. The doom of these 
men by the solemn declaration of this day is death ; if 
it be not executed, it will bring contempt on those who 
declared it. If an attempt is made to execute it to- 
morrow, or a month, or a year, hence, it will be suc- 
cessfully resisted. At this moment, such an event is* 
not apprehended, and there can be no organization to 
prevent it.” 

“ What then is your counsel, Blanche ? ” asked 
Philip. 

“This, Sire: One hour hence it will be dark. Let 
the two Templar chiefs who are sentenced be then 
secretly taken from their dungeons, by the water-gate of 


THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 


343 


the Chatelet, and in boats he transported to the islet of 
the Seine. Let that island he secretly invested with a 
strong guard. Let preparations for the execution be 
made at once. At the stake let full pardon and liberty 
be proclaimed to the Templars, if they will confess. 
They will not confess. Their sentence will be executed. 
There can be no rescue. The royal authority will be sus- 
tained and continue to be respected. Agitation among 
the people will cease. The Order of the Templars will 
then, and not till then, be truly extinct. And you, Sire, 
will then, and not till then, be truly King of France ! ” 

“ But, will not survivors of the order seek revenge for 
the execution of their chief?” asked the King. 

“And if they did, where could they find it?” returned 
the Countess. “Agitation of your own people, Sire, is 
-all you have to dread, and these Templars, once dead, 
that agitation would cease. Besides, the agitators seek 
the release of their chief, — not a fruitless, and barren, 
and impossible vengeance. Were he free and their 
head, their vengeance might well be dreaded; but cut 
off* that head, and the monster is powerless !” 

“Blanche — Blanche — you arc right!” cried the King. 
“ Blanche is always right ! Gentlemen and prelates, we 
have decided. The Council is dissolved. You, Be Cha- 
tillon, Lord Constable of France, will preside over tho 
execution of the Master of the Templars and the Prior 
•of Normandy, on the isle of the Seine, west of the Cite in 
one hour from this time. The Council is dismissed.” 

The Tower-clock tolled six. Blanche glided from the 
apartment. Her purpose was accomplished. 


344 


TIIE MARTYRDOM. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE MARTYRDOM. 

T HE SEINE, as it flowed through Paris, in the 
early part of the Fourteenth Century, embraced six 
islands — three above, or east of the Cite , and two west, 
or below. It has now but two, the three above being 
united into one, and that one being connected with the 
eastern extremity of the Cite by a bridge of stone — both 
bridge and islands being covered with houses; while 
those at the foot of the Cite have been united to its 
western extremity and are also covered with houses. 

But in 1314 the only one of the six islands — or more 
properly of the three islands and three islets — at all 
inhabited was Vile de la Cite, which then constituted 
perhaps the most considerable of the three districts — 
University , Cite and Ville — of which Paris was and is 
composed. 

On the evening of the eighteenth of March, 1314, one 
hour after sunset, a strange and memorable spectacle was 
witnessed on the most eastern of these uninhabited 
islands — then used as a garden for the Louvre — on a spot 
where now stands the equestrian statue of Henry the 
Fourth* — that square area which projects eastwardly 
from the platform of the Pont Neuf, at the junction of its 

* Erected by Louis XVIII., in 1818— the original bronze statue by Mary de 
Medieis, Queen Dowager of Henry II., erected in 1669, having been destroyed 
in 17y‘2. Napoleon designed a granite obelisk for this spot, 200 feet high 


THE MARTYRDOM. 


345 


northern and southern branches; and which, by- the -bye, 
can be quite as plainly defined on a map as from the 
bridge itself, if not more so. 

A strange and memorable spectacle ! 

The counsel of Blanche of Artois was observed. 

The decree of the Pope was pronounced. 

The orders of the King were obeyed. 

The Grand Officers of the Temple were doomed. 

In the centre of that solitary islet of the Seine two 
stakes were planted, furnished with fetters and chains ; 
and fagots were heaped in circles around, while the islet 
itself was invested by troops. 

From the deep dungeons of the Chatelet, at the head 
of the Petit Pont, on the south bank of the Seine, 
through a low portal which opened on the stream 
beneath the abutment of the bridge, the noble victims 
were brought forth, and in darkness and silence con- 
veyed in barges to the place of execution. 

De Chatillon, the Constable ; De Nogaret, the Chancel- 
lor; De Marigni, the Minister; and the infamous Wil- 
liam Imbert, Grand Inquisitor, all in their robes of office, 
were already there. 

“ Jacques de Molai,” said Imbert, “ at this last 
moment, will you renew your confession of Chinon 
and save your life?” 

“Never! ” was the prompt response. 

“Guy of Normandy, at this last moment, will you 
renew your confession and save your life? ” 

The same stern answer was given. 

“Constable of France,” cried Imbert, “the Holy 


846 


THE MARTYRDOM. 


Clmrch. resigns the heretics to secular power for punish- 
ment.” 

Instantly a circle of dark figures, in black vizards, 
environed the victims and hurried each to one of the 
spots of execution. 

“ For the last time, will you confess ? ” cried the 
Inquisitor. 

“Never!” was the simultaneous and immediate reply. 

“ Constable of France, — your duty ! ” rejoined the 
monk. 

And at once dark forms swarmed around the heaped - 
up fagots, and applied to the combustible materials 
their blazing torches. At that moment, from the tower 
of Notre Dame, tolled seven. 

Then, for the first time, was the foul scene, hitherto 
wrapt in profoundest gloom, revealed — the dark forms 
of the executioners, appropriately garbed in sable robes, 
which strongly contrasted their livid and terror-struck 
faces — the serene and placid countenances of the ven- 
erable victims, who, with hands clasped meekly on 
their bosoms, and lips moving in prayer, looked trust- 
fully up to those quiet skies with the bright stars above 
them, whither their pure souls were so soon to wend 
their way. 

As the red glare of the funeral pyres mounted and 
spread, fanned into fury by the night-blast of winter, the 
whole surrounding' scenery became illumed by the lurid 
light. The outlines of the islet itself, hemmed in by a 
fringe of glittering spears, stood out in strong relief, 
while the rushing waters of the swollen Seine all around 


THE MARTYRDOM. 


347 


seemed like liquid flame in the fiery reflection. On the 
left the Convent of the Augustines and, below, the 
tall, dark Tower of Nesle gleamed redly in the glare. 
On the right, rose the Church of St. Germain l’Auxer- 
rois, with its stupendous rose-window, and, beyond, the 
multitudinous towers of the Louvre; while, in the rear, 
the vast mass of the Palace of Justice and, more dis- 
tantly, the huge front of Notre Dame loomed up in giant 
shapes against the bleak eastern sky. 

Along the quays, too, on either side, and over the 
bridges, began to be viewed numerous figures hurrying 
wildly along as the flames increased, demanding in vain 
their cause. From either bank, also, put out innumer- 
able river craft to that lonely islet. For a moment they 
were seen glancing across the broad stream of blood-red 
rushing water, and then they disappeared beneath the 
shadows of the high banks and were seen no more. But 
above the shadows of the bank, in the flashing flames, 
still gleamed the glittering spear-points of the palace 
guard. 

Upon all this strange and memorable scene gazed 
more than one from the casements of the Louvre, with 
intense solicitude and interest. But one Avas there, who, 
alone — alone on the highest summit of the tower nearest 
to the scene, gazed on with excitement almost delirious 
with excess. That one was a woman, and that woman 
was Blanche of Artois ! 

From the council-chamber of the King she had repaired 
to her own apartment, and, having enveloped her form 
in the folds of an ample cloak, was shortly after winding 
22 


843 


THE MARTYRDOM. 


her way up the spiral stair of the central tower of the 
Louvre. For nearly an hour she waited and watched, — 
patiently ; most patiently, despite the keen and cutting 
blasts, which, in her elevated position, swept with wdn- 
try fierceness around her delicate form. But she felt 
them not — she felt them no more than she w’ould have 
felt those devouring flames for 'which she now 'watched. 
There was a flame within, which defied all flames Avith- 
out, and rendered to her all the sensations of humanity 
alike ! 

Breathless she listened ; but she heard not a word. 
Her counsel and the King’s commands were well obeyed. 
All was still — still as the grave. 

At length the clock beneath her struck the hour of 
seven, and the whole tower trembled with the vibrations 
of the heavy bell. At that moment two spiral flames 
shot up from the solitary islet, on which her eyes had 
been so long and so anxiously fastened, and the whole 
scene became instantly illumed, as described. 

So brilliant were the flames that, even from the dis- 
tant and elevated spot on w r hich she stood, she could 
almost distinguish the forms and faces of her victims ; 
and they were reflected back by the exulting and venge- 
ful flames of her own dark eyes. 

Higher and higher mounted the flames — fiercer and 
fiercer glowed the fire — brighter and brighter became 
the illumination, until all Paris, and the gliding Seine, 
and the towers, and massive churches, and palaces, and 
prisons, and even the very welkin itself seemed 
suffused in the blood -red glare I 


THE MARTYRDOM. 


349 


But the victims moved not, spake not, shrieked not, 
as had been the wont of other victims before them. 
Like their great Grand Master, Christ, when on the 
cross, they uttered not a word ! On their broad breasts 
were still folded their hands — to the starry heavens were 
still raised their eyes — in prayer still jnoved their lips.* 

And, verily, that prayer seemed granted! Verily 
from those aged and innooent sufferers did the pangs of 
mortality seem to pass! It would, verily, seem that 
they suffered not at all ; else, how, how, amid those 
awful tortures with which, as with a garment, they were 
wrapt, could those venerable faces have retained the 
calm serenity they bore! It would, verily, seem that, 
by a miracle vouchsafed them, the extremest tortures of 
frail humanity had over them no power! 

The flames — they roared and raved, and rushed, and 
raged : exultingly they leaped up like lions around their 
prey ; they advanced and retreated — they fell and rose 
again — they danced and played, and murmured and 
menaced, and sent forth their mad music in defiance on 
the blast. Purple and silver, and blue and pink, and 
yellow and bloody red, they flung forth their irised hues 
on all things, animate or inanimate, around; and when 
for a single instant, the pitiless monster paused in its 
purpose, and its ravening seemed to subside, the dark 
shades of ready fiends agaiij. hovered around, and fresh 
fagots were flung from a distance — so fierce was the 
fervor — and again the flames flashed wildly up and 
brightly sparkled in ascending showers, as if to defy the 


* Veliy. 


850 


THE MARTYRDOM. 


pure heavens, whose many stars looked sorrowfully down 
on tli at scene of man’s madness: and then they swept 
and whirled as wildly, and roared and raved as fiercely, 

, and danced and leaped as merrily, as ever before. 

This could not last. Long since lmd the flames reached 
their victims. Slowly the extremities consumed, and in 
blackened fragments dropped off. Sinews shriveled, 
bones crackled, tendons snapped, arteries burst, flesh fell 
away into ashes ! But, wonderful to recite, the venerable 
victims offered no sign or sound of anguish! 

Once more the triumphant element sprang madly 
upward — then — all was veiled in cloud and flame. And 
then, from the midst of that cloud and flame, which in 
fury rioted around the great Templars, came forth a 
voice as of Sinai itself. And it was heard by the dark 
ministers of pain who presided over the torture, and the 
darker ministers of fate who had bidden it; and by all 
Paris, now assembled, with pale and horror-struck faces, 
along the illuminated banks; and by the prelates and 
princes at the Louvre ; and by Philip of France, in his 
council-chamber; and by Blanche of Artois in her 
tower; and in tones of thunder it said: 

u Clement, thou unj ust j udge, I summon thee, within 
forty days, to the judgment seat of God!” 

And all was still, and all was terror ! 

Again that fearful voice was heard : 

“ Philip of France, within one year and one day, I 
summon thee to meet me! 

* Seretti of Vicenza asserts that; De Molai cited Clement within forty days, 
and Philip within a year and a day, to meet him before the judgment seat of 
God. 


THE MARTYRDOM. 


351 


At tli at instant the flames whirled and swept anew. 
The stake fell! A cloud of sparks leaped and eddied 
upward. All was over! 

And then, from that tall palace- tower, was heard a 
woman’s shriek of joy : 

“Iia! ha! ha! It is done! Adrian, Adrian, thou art 
avenged ! ” 

****** 

Midnight pealed over Paris. The flames had burned 
out: — the multitude had dispersed: — in terror and dis- 
may, and in grief and rage, the people had gone to their 
homes: — the Inquisitors with their vile familiars had 
returned to the Louvre : they were surrounded by guards ; 
and well were it for them it was so: they would other- 
wise have been torn into fragments by an infuriate people. 

The last light had gone out in the palace, — the last 
sound had ceased. All was still, — dark and still, save 
the everlasting murmur of the rushing Seine, as its 
waves swept on, and eddied around the shores of that 
lonely isle, so lately the scene of a spectacle so horrid, 
now lonelier than ever, and evermore thus doomed; 
accursed — accursed forever! And the solitary boatman 
of the Tower of Nesle as, this night, even as on a ] l 
nights before, for nine long years, in storm or in calm, in 
darkness or in moonlight, — he glided past that deserted 
spot, shuddered and turned pale, and over him crept a 
dark presentiment of his own approaching and dreadful 
doom ! 

And, when the gray dawn was breaking, — and the 
icy breath of winter was sweeping down the Seine, — - 


352 


THE MARTYRDOM. 


and the lonely boatman, hurrying back to the Louvre, 
was passing that unhallowed islet on his way from an 
unhallowed couch, — strange shapes were hovering around 
the fatal spot, — and the long white mantle of the Tem- 
ple was caught gleaming faintly in the ashy dawn; and 
mystic rites and solemn ceremonies seemed celebrated 
there. 

And when the morning broke, and sorrowing, 3'et 
indignant multitudes crossed over the water to rake np 
the cold ashes of the martyred men, to give them con- 
secrated burial, or to hand them down in reliquaries to 
their children’s children, — lo ! those ashes were already 
gone! and the keen northern blast swept a naked spot! 
And each said to the other that the winds of Heaven 
had given them burial — had taken them to their rest ! 

But not so said Philip de Launai. He said nothing. 
He, too, was a Templar : — but, alas ! he was an apostate 1 
He had sacrificed all things most sacred to a guilty love I 

* * * * * * 

Thus perished the last of the Military Templars, — 
the last of the Soldier-monks. But thus perished not 
the Order of the Temple, though thus, by its foes, was it 
designed, and hoped, and believed. 

Prescient of his approaching doom, with prophetic 
ken, a whole year before his death, Jacques de Molai 
had sent the mystic cipher to John Mark Lamienius of 
Jerusalem, then presiding at Limisso, in the Island of 
Cyprus, bidding him, at once, to his chamber, in the 
Temple at Paris. Instantly the knight obeyed. Had he 


THE MARTYRDOM. 


353 


-been bidden by the same sign and cipher to the stake, he 
would have obeyed none the less willingly nor quickly ! 

On this distinguished Templar, who, for months, as 
has been said, was the companion of De Molai’s confine- 
ment, the old knight secretly, and without the knowl- 
edge even of his fellow prisoners, conferred by nomina- 
tion the degree of Grand Master of the Order, which he 
then himself resigned; and, having, in due. form, initi- 
ated him into the mysteries of that degree, with all 
ancient rites and ceremonies, and having presented to 
him his own sword, together with his baton of office, the 
mystic abacus, he communicated the word, and grip, 
and sign of Master, even as they had been committed to 
him by Theobald Gaudinius, his predecessor, and which 
by him alone iii all the world were known, and, uncom- 
municated, would have perished with him from the earth. 

But they perished not, and, now, nearly six centuries 
afterwards, they exist in all their efficacy, having been 
handed down through twenty or thirty successors, em- 
bracing among them some of the most remarkable men 
who have ever lived * 

Subsequently to the death of De Molai, his successor 
made known to the order his nomination to the rank 
thus vacated, to the dismay and amazement of all its 
foes; and, thus nominated, Lamienius was, of course, 

* The great B ntrand du Guesclin was Grand Master of the Templars for 
more than twenty years,— from 1357 to July 13, 1380, when he died, at the age 
of sixty-six, while besieging the English in the Castle of Randon, in uuienne. 
In 1833, Sir Sidney Smith was Grand Master, being the 51st from Hugh des 
ravens in 1118, and the 26th from Jacques de Molai in 1298. Several of the 
Montmorencies held this illustrious rank and during the last century it was 
filled bv Princes of the House of Bourbon, among whom was Philip hgalite, 
Duke of Orleans. Some years since tli u Grand Master was Bernard Raymond 
Fabre Palprat. 


354 


THE MARTYRDOM. 


elected, in accordance with due and ancient forms. A 
gnind chapter secretly assembled at Cyprus,— an Elect- 
ing Prior and his assistant were chosen, — all night in the 
chapel they prayed,— -in the morning they selected two 
other Priors, and the four two more, and the six two 
more, until the number of twelve, — that of the Apostles, 
— was completed. These twelve selected a chaplain, 
and the thirteen then in retirement elected a Grand Mas- 
ter of the order. And then the Grand Prior, entering 
the chapter at the head of the twelve Electors, in stately 
procession, exclaimed: 

“John Mark Lamienius, in the name of God the 
Father, and of God the Son, and of God the Holy Ghost, 
thou art our Master! Brothers, give thanks! — behold 
your Master ! — advance and receive his orders ! ” 

Then the whole chapter gathered around the successor 
of He Molai, and vowed to obey him, in all things, all 
their lives. 

And ever since, from age to age, and from generation 
to generation, have the same election rites and mysteries 
been observed. The Order of the Templars still exists 
in all the chief cities of Europe and the world; and 
though no more a military, or an ecclesiastical brother- 
hood, its rites and forms, its ceremonies and mysteries, 
its obligations and ties of unity as a secret affiliation, are 
the self-same they were eight hundred years ago. This 
the archives of the order preserved in that portion of the 
Palace of the Temple which yet remains, going back to 
the date of its foundation, abundantly demonstrate. 
Among these ancient and ponderous tomes is a Greek 


THE MARTYRDOM. 


355 


manuscript of the Twelfth Century, containing the orig- 
inal record of the institution of the order; also, St. Ber- 
nard’s Rule, and the confirmation of the Pontiff, and the 
Golden Table or the catalogue of Grand Masters, from 
period of its date down to the present day. Here, too, 
are the ancient seals, and standards, and reliques and 
regalia of the Temple, and the massive falchion of 
Jacques de Molai, together with a few fragments of 
charred bone which were gathered up with his ashes, 
and sacredly preserved, enveloped in an ancient napkin. 

For six centuries, the Temple at Paris has been the 
seat of the order; and here, every year, from all Europe, 
on the eighteenth day of March, assemble representatives 
of that ancient fraternity, to commemorate the martyr- 
dom of its great Master, Jacques de Molai. And in sol- 
emn procession, thence proceed they to the spot now 
indicated by the statue of Henri Quatre, at the Pont 
Neuf, and, after many a mystic rite and impressive cere- 
mony, they march around the memorable place, and, as 
they came, return.* 


* On the IS tli of March, 1848, notwithstanding the convulsed condition rf 
Parjs, then in revolution, this procession was witnessed. It consisted of only 
forty-eight persons ; but of these, two were members of the most illustrious 
families in France, one was a prince of the blood royal of Spain, one a Greek 
Boyard, three noblemen of Great Brita'n, and all of them men of influence 
and celebrity. Their costume was black ; and, on the left lappel of the long 
frock coat was embroidered a scarlet crucifix, which, the coat being but- 
toned, would escape observation. An American writing from Paris under 
date of March, 18 31, says*— Tim Order of Knights Templar, which is sMU 
existing in Eu -ope, celebrated, on Tuesday last, the anniversary of the death 
of Jan ues M dai. who was burnt five hundred and thirty-eight years ago, 
under the accusation of felony, sorcery and high treason. This execution 
took place on the same spot where now stands the bronze horse of Henry the 
JVth, on t.h *. Pont Neuf. The Templars, who have mwer ceased to exist, hel l 
their annual meeting in their lodge. Rue Notre Dame des Victoires. and 
many new knights were received as members on that occasion. 'I he ceremony 
was imposing and created a deep impiession upon the small number of persons 
who were admitted in the tribunes. 


856 


THE MARTYRDOM. 


Iii England, tlie encampment at Bristol founded by 
Templars, who, in 1194, returned with Richard from 
Palestine, is still in vigorous existence, as are, also, the 
original encampments at Bath and York. 

In Portugal, the cross of the “Knights of Christ” is 
one of the most distinguished badges of honor conferred 
by the crown; while, in every capital of Christendom, 
many of the most influential men are Templar Knights. 

Truly, then, — most truly spake the venerable Jacques 
de Molai, when, with prophetic prescience, he declared 
that, though he might perish, his beloved order would 
survive. It has survived; and so long as purity and 
piety are respected upon the earth, — so long as Faith, 
and Hope, and Charity continue to be recognized, so long 
will it continue to exist 1 

u Truth crushed to earth will rise again, 

Tli’ eternal years of God are hers ! ” 


THE RETRIBUTION. 


857 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE RETRIBUTION. 

H OW strikingly is exemplified a retributive Prov- 
idence in the destinies of men and of nations I 
When Jacques de Molai died, he summoned Pope 
Clement Fifth, within forty days, to the judgment seat 
of God. 

And so it was. Brief and terrible was Clement’s life, 
after that summons was delivered him. A strange con- 
viction seized his mind, — a strange malady seized his 
frame. His physicians told him he could find relief 
only by inhaling the atmosphere of his native place; 
and, in a litter, he started for Bordeaux. But all was 
vain. His hour came before he reached his home. On 
the evening of April 20th, 1314, he was compelled to 
stop at the little village of Roquemare, on the Rhone, in 
the diocese of Xismes, and there, in despair and anguish, 
in a few short hours, he breathed his last. 

And Philip of France: — immediately after the execu- 
cution of the Templars, in order to divert the thoughts 
of the People of Paris from that awful event, he took 
occasion to confer the distinction of knighthood on his 
three sons, a ceremony signalized by a succession, of 
public fetes, which continued several days. In the 
midst of these festivities came intelligence that Guy, 
Count of Flanders, was in arms, and swept his border 


35S 


THE RETRIBUTION. 


with fire and sword. Philip was at once in the war- 
saddle. But his star was in rapid decadence. Only 
defeat awaited him. Bruges, Ghent, Courtraye, one 
after the other, were retaken; and he, who, a victor, had 
ever before prescribed whatsoever articles of treaty 
might seem good to him, was now forced to sign such 
as it might seem good to his once- vanquished foes to. 
prescribe. 

His own kingdom, too, — and this touched him more 
nearly, — was in avowed revolt! Picardy, Ohampaigne, 
Artois, Burgundy, Forez, openly conspired to resist the 
imposts, taxes, and debasement of coin, instituted to meet 
the expenses of an unsuccessful conflict; and they laid 
down their arms only when all they asked was conceded. 

From England, also, came evil tidings. His royal son- 
in-law, Edward, was at war with Scotland,* and bad sus- 
tained overwhelming reverses; and of his only daugh- 
ter enough may be inferred from the single sentence 
of the historian — “Since the days of the fair and false 
Elfrida, of Saxon celebrity, no Queen of England has left 
so dark a stain on the annals of female royalty as the 
consort of Edward Second, Isabella of France.” 

But a more fearful blow than this awaited him. Pollu- 
tion was on his own threshold — infamy was in his own 
household! Suddenly, from the confessional, it is said, 
came forth a dreadful charge — a charge of adultery 
against Margaret of Burgundy, Queen of Navarre, and Jane 
of Burgundy, Countess of Poitiers, immediately suc- 

* The defeat of Edward, by the Scots, under Bruce, at Bannocbmn 
occurred .Tune 24th. 1314, with the loss of eC,tuy men, of whom many were 
nobles. 01 the Scots, only gi'UJ fell. 


THE RETRIBUTION. 


359 


ceeled by a similar accusation, — horror of horrors ! — • 
against the only idol of his dark bosom — Blanche of 
Artois, the Countess of Marche! 

Had the massive tower of the Louvre itself fallen upon 
the guilty head of Philip of France, he could not have been 
more crushed than he was now. The ignominy of his 
daughters, Jane and Margaret, terrible as it would have 
been, lie might have endured. But, Blanche, — his own 
Blanche, — the being whom, more than all others, — whom 
alone of all others, he had loved, — his pure, perfect, bril- 
liant, beautiful Blanche, — his able counsellor in all per* 
plexities, — his fond and faithful consoler in all sorrows : 

“Oh, God!” he exclaimed, “the Templar’s curse is 
on me now! ” 

But grief was vain — regret was vain. The guilt was 
proved beyond a doubt — beyond a peradventure — a guilt 
on the part of the two sisters Margaret and Jane of nearly 
nine years’ duration. 

Philip and Walter de Launai were tried by special 
commission at Pontoisc and condemned. Then their 
bodies were flayed and mutilated, and dragged through 
stubble-fields and drawn, and the entrails burned before 
their eyes and, finally, they were beheaded and suspended 
on public gibbets there to rot for the vulture’s maw. 

Ilexian de Beziers, the infamous Prior of Montfau^on, 
and William clu Plessis, the monk of St. Dominic, who, 
with infernal zeal had presided with Tmbeit over the 
torture of the Templars, shared, also, with the Inquis- 
itor, the fate of the paramours, as confidants of their 
guilty loves. 


360 


THE RETRIBUTION. 


Tlie long-continued and unblushing criminality of the 
Queen of Navarre was so clearly proved, and by so 
mauy witnesses, that not a doubt of her guilt remained. 
Her beautiful hair was shorn from her head, and Cha- 
teau-Graillard, an impregnable castle, erected by Richard 
Coeur-de-Lion on the edge of a precipice overhanging 
the Seine, near the village of Andely, was the place 
appointed for her imprisonment. But that imprison- 
ment was brief. In a few months she was secretly 
strangled in her dungeon, by order of her husband, 
.Louis, with her own shroud ; and her body was depos- 
ited in the church of the Cordeliers of Vernon.* 

The charge against the Countess of Poitiers was in- 
vestigated by the Parliament in the presence of her uncle, 
Charles of Yalois. But Philip, her husband, was more 
politic, or less jealous than his brother. He cared too 
little for his wife, and too much for another, to be very 
regardful of her affections, or her favors : and, as to his 
honor, he thought, and very wisely, perhaps — that the 
worst mode of sustaining that was to prove himself dis- 
honored ! So he affected to believe the fair Countess an 
innocent and injured woman; and the accommodating 
Parliament, having no wish to disoblige so amiable a 
prince, thought the same, so, therefore, Jane’s accusers 
were all executed instead of herself; and she lived, for 
some seven years, a most discreet life till Philip died. 
“But,” says the historian, “ her widowhood is stained by 
crimes of the most revolting nature, and the scenes which 

♦After the assassination of Margaret. Louis married Cleinence of Hungary, 
a Neapolitan princess, daughter of Charles, surnamed Martel, the Hammer. 


THE RETRIBUTION. 


361 


took place at the Abbey of Maubuisson were enacted at 
her residence, the Hotel de Nesle, with double depravity. 
The towers or that dark edifice were bathed by the wa- 
ters of the Seine, and all those who had the misfortune 
to attract Jane’s criminal regards were invited to the 
chateau, and were afterward precipitated from the heights 
into the water, to prevent a recital of her infamy.” 

And Blanche of Artois : — for a time she was a willing 
prisoner in the Castle of Gauray, near Coutances. But 
she was never brought to trial, as the evidence against 
her was exceedingly vague, although among other charges 
she was accused of having secretly given birth to a child 
at the Abbey of Maubuisson. For herself, she admitted 
nothing, and she denied nothing. Of the enormity of 
the offences of which she was accused she seemed to en- 
tertain not the slightest appreciation. Indeed, for both 
accusations and accusers alike she manifested only pro* 
found indifference. She readily united with her husband 
in a petition -to the Pope for a divorce, and it was 
granted.* She then retired to the Abbey of Maubuis- 
son, the early scene of her guilty love. With her went 
her now inseparable companion, Marie Morfontair.e ; 
and, after brief penance and novitiate, the Countess took- 
the veil. 

Broken down in spirit by these repeated and heavy 
reverses and many others f and consumed by the cease- 


* The divorce of Charles and Blanche was pronounced hy John XXII.. on 
plea that Matilda., Countess of Artois, her mother, had been his godmother! 
The kindred was close, indeed ! * 

t Bussev says, that Jane, Queen of Philip, not long married, was poisoned 
shortly after the execution of De Molai ! Jane of Navarre, his first wife, died 
at the’Chateau of Viucenues, April 2, 13Q5. 


862 


THE RETRIBUTION. 


less gnawings of remorse, Philip of France soon became 
as shattered in body and mind, as lie already was in heart. 
The summons of the dying Templar to follow him within 
the year seemed forever to hang over and oppress his 
mind, especially since the remarkable death of Clement; 
while the loss of his favorite Blanche deprived him of 
his sole consolation when it was needed most. Pale, 
emaciated, sad, broken -spirited, who could imagine in 
him the brave, impetuous, ehivalric Philip le Bel as we 
Lave known him at the Abbey of St. Jean d’Angely, 

: i:d of his belter and happier clays, as he now tottered 
feebly about the Louvre, amid the scenes of his former 
splendor ? 

At length the physicians of the King said to Philip 
what the physicians of the Pope had said to Clement — 
“ You must breathe } T our native air, or, you must die ” — 
the last advice of physicians then, as now, when that, 
as well as all else, is vain. The King was accordingly 
conveyed to his birth-spot, — Fontainebleau, some fifteen 
leagues from Paris, on the Lyons route. But not the 
flowery shades, nor the perfumed airs, nor the leafy 
groves of Araby the blest can minister health to a 
“ mind diseased ” — a spirit crushed — a conscience haunted 
by inexpiable crime. Daily and hourly Philip sank. 
His malady was called consumption. It was so. Con- 
sumption of the heart. lie felt that he must die, — that 
he was doomed ; and he sent for Louis, his eldest son and 
successor, and gave him his last, and most salutary ad- 
vice, respecting the governance of the realm whose throne 
he was about to mount. His own errors he most freely 


THE RETRIBUTION 


$63 


and fully confessed and sorrowed over ; and lie bade liis son 
take warning by liis fate. All the edicts of his reign, by 
which he had oppressed his people, he revoked; and, 
after conjuring his successor to avoid his own errors, and 
to provide a remedy for their injurious effects, especially 
toward the injured Templars, lie died. And with princely 
pomp and regal obsequy, his body was conveyed to St. 
Denis and his heart to the Abbey of Poissy erected by 
his father* 

Philip of France died on the 29th day r of November, 
1314 : and then was remembered the dying summons 
of Jacques de Molai, just seven months before — “ Within 
this year I summon thee to the judgment of God ! ” 

On the decease of Philip, all his Ministers, who by 
their active zeal in executing his iniquitous schemes had 
secured his favor and the hatred of all others, experienced 
the severest reverses. Upon them, of course, was charged 
all the embarrassments of the government, and all the 
oppression and disaffection of the people which had their 
origin under their administration of the government. 
But upon Enguerrand de Marigni, who, after tlie arrest 
as a Templar of the Grand Prior of Aequitaine who had 
been Minister of Finance, had himself assumed the regu- 
lation of that department, descended the heaviest blow. 
Charged by Charles of Valois, his ancient and inveterate 
foe, with peculation upon the public treasures, he was ar- 
rested, at the door of the Hotel of the Fosses St. Germain, 
loaded with chains and plunged into the dungeons of the 

* Philip’s end is said by some writers to have been hastened by a fall from 
bis horse, through debility, while hunting the wild boar in the forests of Fon- 
tainebleau. 

23 


364 


THE RETRIBUTION. 


Temple, — those very dungeons, into which himself had 
plunged the victim knights ! Then, arose against him 
another charge, more dreadful in that age than all others, 
as had been proven by the fate of the unhappy Templars; 
and, in this, with himself, was associated liis wife, Alips 
de Mons, and his sister, the Lady of Canteleu, and their 
alleged familiar, Jacques Delor. That charge was sor- 
cery , — the very charge himself had instituted against the 
Templar Knights ! Nothing could save him ! From the 
dungeon he was conveyed to the rack, — from the rack to 
the wood of Vincennes where he was sentenced, and thence, 
in the habit of a convict, bearing in his hand a taper of 
yellow wax, to the gibbet of Montfau9on, which himself 
had just erected. And there, at break of day, just one 
year* after the summons of De Molai, he was hanged, 
and his body was suspended in chains. 

Raoul de Presle, the Advocate-General of the King, 
who had deposed against the Templars, was arrested 
with De Marigni, of whom he was the intimate friend, 
on charge of having conspired against the life of the late 
King. All his lands and effects were at once confis- 
cated, — his body was consigned to the dungeons of St. 
Genevieve and to the rack; and, though, subsequentlv, 
he was acquitted, his property was never restored. 
Happily for William de Nogaret, he preceded to the 
grave the master he had served so wickedly and so 
well. 

Henry Capetal, Provost of Paris, under whose charge, 

* April, 30, 1315. The wife and sister of De Marigni were immured in dun- 
geons for life! Delor hanged himself in his cell, and his wife was burned 
alive ! 


THE RETRIBUTION-. 


365 


in the dungeons of tlie Chatelet, the unhappy Templars 
had been so rigorously imprisoned and so heavily fet- 
tered, and led thence to the stake, was accused of having 
substituted, on the gibbet, in place of a rich assassin, 
justly doomed, a friendless citizen, incarcerated for theft, 
in consideration of an enormous bribe. The crime was 
proven, and the Provost and the prisoner both swung on 
the same gibbet which had borne their victim. 

Tlie apostate Templar, Noffo Dei, was hanged for 
robbery ; and Squin de Florian was slain in a drunken 
quarrel. 

In view of these events, well may we exclaim — u rf 
this be chance, it is wonderful ! ” 


366 


THE CONCLUSION. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE CONCLUSION. 

B UT Blanche of Artois, — she died not. The miser- 
able seldom die as others do. Not that she was 
really now as miserable as she had been. She was only 
hopeless, — senseless. Earth and earth’s objects were to 
her — nothing! A wild, revenge had succeeded in her 
bosom a wilder love; and, between them, her heart had 
been consumed to ashes. That heart, once inhabited by 
the angel, Love, became the dwelling of the fiend, 
Vengeance. That fiend had, accomplished its purpose, 
and had departed; and the heart was a tenantless 
sepulchre. 

It Ts impossible to conceive a vacuum more complete 
than wa3 now tVe heart of Blanche of Artois, or an 
indifference more utter than that felt and manifested by 
her for all earthly objects, and interests, and individuals. 

What to her were accusations of infamy? True, those 
charges were vague, and undefined, and there had been 
little effort on her part to render them less so; but, once, 
a breath only of suspicion on her fair fame would have 
roused her to frenzy. To her now it was a thing of 
entire unconcern whether she was, or was not, deemed 
pure. She cared for no one — she cared for nothing. If 
the world respected not her, it could hardly have less 
respect for her than she had for it, or for its laws, or for 


THE CONCLUSION. 


367 


its penalties. She was as regardless of its love as of its 
hate, — of its worship as of its contumely; and she cared 
too little for either to indulge for them — even contempt. 

Her heart was a tomb without a tenant. All passions, 
and all emotions, and all sympathies, — almost all sensa- 
tions were dead in her. Her veins were as cold as those 
of a bronze statue, and the blood that coursed them as 
gelid as are the ice-lakes of the Alps. Over her reigned 
an everlasting stupor. 

And, yet, she lived, and moved, and breathed,— she 
slept, she ate, she drank, even as others do. Her bodily 
health seemed never better, — her frame was never 
stronger, — never more capable of endurance. Disease, 
that laid low others, touched not her; — the black wing 
of pestilence shadowed not her brow, though it swept 
others away with its pall; the angel of death circled her 
with corpses, and then passed on ; his deadly spear-point 
touched her not; she could not die! Nor did she care 
to die; no more, at least, than she cared to live; to life 
or to death, she seemed alike, equally, and most incon- 
ceivably indifferent. 

In all the penance and all the prayers, and all the 
countless devotions of the cloister whither she had 
sought rest, no saint could have been more severely 
observant than was she. Yet her worship was not of 
the soul. Her heart had nothing to do with it. She 
had no heart, indeed, for anything, — not even for the 
service of her God, — not even for her God Himself! 
Night after night, in the depths of winter, she kneeled 
until the dawn before the altar, on the rough stones of 


863 


THE CONCLUSION’. 


the damp, chill cloister chapel. But she felt not. Her 
bosom glowed not with that piety, which renders 
humanity unconscious of its weaknesses and indifferent 
to the severity of the elements ; nor was her body a suf- 
ferer for the sins of the soul. She suffered not as a mortal, 
she repented not as a saint. Severest penance was no 
penance to her. Mechanically — uniformly — unvaryingly 
r — unfeelingly — most exemplarily — she went through all 
the exactest requisitions of the Beguine Buie. But she 
felt nothing. How could she ? All penitential cere- 
monies and inflictions, she unflinchingly observed ; but 
of true repentance she knew nothing. 

Of what should she repent ? Of her mad love ? Alas ! 
that now to her was the dearest — the only dear thing in 
existence ! Kepent of her love for Adrian ! Impossible ! 
If there had been one pure, one sacred, one hallowed 
impulse in the history of her whole life, her wild love 
seemed to her that one. If that love had been guilt, 
then, alas ! was she most guilty ; for to her it had been 
the most sacred emotion of her life. How could she 
repent of that for the brief indulgence of which, — so bit- 
terly recompensed, — she could realize no crime ? Had 
not Adrian, in the sight of God, and in her own heart, 
been her husband? — her only true and actual husband? 
Had not he for one whole year slumbered on her bosom ? 
— was he not the father of her child? And whose 
rights, or whose love, or whose covenant, — (broken as 
all covenants had been broken by him whom man called 
her husband) — whose transcended Adrian’s ? Who had 
ever loved her as he had? Whom had she ever loved 


THE CONCLUSION. 


3G9 


as slie Lad loved Lim? And now to repent of tliat love 
—the dearest — purest thing in all her life I She could 
suffer for it; — suffering she cared not for. Nay, gladly 
would she have braved all, and endured all, had all been 
before her again to brave, and to endure. Oh! how 
cheaply, by years of suffering, would she have purchased 
a single hour of the past! 

IIow then could she repent of that which she regarded 
thus? She felt, — she knew, — that were she on her 
dying-bed, and about going in spirit before her God, her 
last ejaculation would be her lover’s name, and her last 
memory of earth, and her brightest hope of Ileaven, her 
ill-starred love. 

If that were guilt, then gladly would she go a guilty 
being into eternity. She felt that any world with 
Adrian would be Heaven, — that any world without him 
would be — Hell! 

And her wild — mad — awful vengeance — could she 
repent of that ? Alas! on that side her heart was iron. 
To her, the sufferings of others were nothing. What 
tortures could equal hers? Who had suffered, — could 
suffer, as she had? Whose wrongs had been like her 
own? What retribution could exceed their just re- 
compense ? 

But all these thoughts had passed away now. She 
thought of nothing, and felt nothing, even as she cared 
for nothing. She was a being of cold, calm intellect. 
Feeling had in her no part. Man and woman, all 
animate and all inanimate things— were alike to her. 
Mechanically — as a Beguine Nun, she was charitable; 


370 


THE CONCLUSION. 


nay, more, she was profuse — extravagant in her charities. 
All her vast revenues were thus expended ; and on her 
descended unnumbered blessings of the wretched and 
the destitute. But for that she cared not. Her benevo- 
lence, her penance and her conventual observance were 
all one. She was a mere automaton, self-moved and 
acting in itself, and for itself. 

There was but one being in the whole world for 
whom Blanche of Artois seemed to manifest the most 
distant approach to human sympathy. That being was 
the poor orphan, Marie Morfontaine. 

The feelings of Blanche towards the young girl she 
had so deeply injured were strange — undefined — undelin- 
able. She loved to have the orphan near her, — to clasp 
her to her heart at night, — to bo beside her by day, and 
to minister to her necessities at all times, especially when 
ill ; and never did mother sacrifice her own comfort to 
an only child, as did Blanche of Artois to Marie Morfon- 
taine at times like these. Indeed, her own comfort or 
wishes she would, at any time, cheerfully yield to the 
merest caprice of her beloved charge. Marie could have 
not a wish that Blanche did not anticipate and provide 
for, — not. an apprehension that Blanche did not foresee 
and forefend. Why was this ? 

Marie Morfontaine was to Blanche of Artois the last 
and the sole memorial of the only being she had ever 
truly loved. Ilad her child survived, on that, doubt- 
less, would her wealth of Avoman-tenderness have been 
expended. But it died, — Adrian died ; — Marie, his first, 
boy -love — his school-playmate, — alone remained, and 


THE CONCLUSION. 


371 


she was the only living link that connected her with, 
him. 

Why wonder, then, that on Marie Mor Fontaine alone 
the rock thus smitten poured Forth its floods, — cold, 
indeed, though those floods might be ? 

Thus passed away day after day — month after month 
— year after year. But to Blanche of Artois what were 
the changes of Time — of Dynasties, or of Kings ? What 
cared she that the race of Hugh Capet was ho longer on 
the throne of France, and that the branch of Valois had 
overshadowed and succeeded. What cared she that 
Philip le Long had succeeded Louis le Hutin to the crown, 
and that her own former husband, Charles le Lei, hav- 
ing married Mary of Luxembourg, daughter of the Em- 
peror, had become the King of France? What cared 
she that Isabella of England was in Paris with, her par- 
amour, Roger Mortimer, an exile from her own throne 
and realm ?* What cared she for all or for any of the 
mighty events that were now agitating the world — she, 
secluded in the quiet shades of the Abbey of Maubuis- 
son, hovering by day like a charmed bird around the 
scenes of her once passionate love, and dreaming by night 
of their events? The little grave of her child, of which 
no one in all the wide world knew save herself, — the 
spots which had witnessed the early interviews and 
ripening passion of her ill-starred love, — oh, how strangely 
dear were they all to her ! 

And yet she exhibited not one pulse of emotion, — 

* Charles le Bel repudiated his wife for the very oSeuce he countenanced 
in his sister! 


872 


THE CONCLUSION. 


no, not even to Marie Morfontaine herself! In her "heart 
all was hushed, — still, — sacred, — hallowed. To no 
human eye 'could that heart be laid bare. Alas! not 
even to herself, or to her God, did she reveal its dread- 
ful secrets! 

This stupor was terrible, — more terrible than even 
death itself! 

It is a fearful thing — which those only who have 
witnessed can appreciate — to behold a human being, or 
even to imagine one, who breathes the same air, and 
walks the same earth, and wears the same form, that we 
all do, who is, yet, to all external objects, — to all 
thoughts, and all sympathies, — to all the world of living 
things, — only a statue of adamant; and who is more 
truly dead, than if the heavy tomb-tablet had, indeed, 
closed over him. To part with the dead is hard. Alas! 
is it less so than to part thus with the living ? 

Yet thus was it with the once brilliant and beautiful 
Blanche of Artois. There is another insanity, — another 
fatuity than that of the brain. It is a monomania — a 
mono-paralysis of the heart; and that was hers. 

With the unhappy orphan, Marie Morfontaine, it was 
not so. She was a different being from Blanche. She 
was the pensile willow — not the stern oak. The bolt 
that scathed or shattered the one only bowed the other 
to the earth. 

She faded — faded, that gentle girl, even as the autum- 
nal flowers fade before the winter’s breath. She had no 
perceptible disease, — she never spoke of pain ; and un- 
complainingly,— meekly— mildly, — piously, she passed 


THE CONCLUSION. 


873 


through all severest exaction of the iron rule to which 
she had resigned herself — 


“ With not a word of murmur, — not, 

A sigh o’er her untimely lot, 

With all the while a cheek, whose bloom 
Was as a mockery of the tomb.” 

Every impulse of resentment or revenge had long 
since ceased to swell her gentle bosom. Bitterly, in the 
dust and ashes of a penitential woe had she bewailed 
that mad infatuation, which had consigned the only 
being she had ever loved to an untimely and dreadful 
doom. Everything which had once seemed to her 
incomprehensible in his conduct was now revealed. She 
knew now that of which before she had never dreamed, 
that his parents, influenced by the unhappy Countess of 
Marche, had forbidden his suit for her hand; and her 
own heart confessed that to have resisted, in his despair, 
the consolation held out by the overwhelming love — the 
indescribable seductions, and the almost angelic loveli- 
ness of the most accomplished woman of the age, he 
must have been more, or less than man. But, while, 
with all her soul, she forgave her lover and her friend, 
to forgive herself seemed impossible. Could she have 
sacrificed her life in atonement for her fault, how gladly 
would not the offering have been made! The world 
with all its aspirations, and all its splendors, and all its 
honors, had no charm for her. Hope, the enchantress 
of youth, had for her youth no sorcery. Of love she 
never thought, nor even dreamed j and, long before her 


374 


THE CONCLUSION*. 


retirement to the shades of Maubuisson, Edmond de Goth 
and his proposals had been dismissed forever. Devoted 
to most severe observance of the Begnine Rule, — though 
she bad not as yet deemed herself worthy to assume its 
vow and its veil, — ber days were employed in the dis- 
tribution of her vast wealth for the relief of destitution 
and the advancement of her holy faith, and her nights in 
penitential prayer; with no thought of earth — no pas- 
sion of human frailty, save the sad memory of that buried 
love, which partook more of the Heaven to which 
she looked forward for its renewal than of the world 
in which it originated. As the young wife mourns the 
loss of that husband in whose grave is entombed her 
heart, so mourned Marie Morfontaine for her beloved 
Adrian; and, unconsciously and imperceptibly, each day, 
as it elapsed, seemed to hasten, even more rapidly than 
Time itself, to re-unite her to her loved and lost. 

The devotedness of the young orphan to the obser- 
vances of her faith was only exceeded at Maubuisson by 
that of Blanche of Artois; and hers was a devotion, 
which was ere long to canonize as a saint one, who, as a 
woman, had, like Mary of old, deeply loved and deeply 
sinned. Often, in the stillness of the night-time, when 
sleep weighed every eyelid of that vast convent save 
her own, she would rise from the hard couch of her soli- 
tary cell, and, pacing the dim aisles and chill corridors 
of the cloister, repair to the altar, and, on the damp 
pavement of the chapel, kneel in prayer until the dawn; 
and here she was often joined by her youthful friend. 

At length, one morning, during the season of Dent y 


THE CONCLUSION. 


375 


just as the gray light was beginning to steal through the 
tall Gothic casements of the church, a pious penitent of 
the convent crept noiselessly up the aisle to bend before 
the shrine. That spot was already filled. There kneeled 
a form garbed in the black serge of the order ; and, as 
the penitent paused and looked more closely, she recog- 
nized by the increasing light the still matchless shape of 
Blanche of Artois. On the cold pavement she kueeled; 
her transparent hands were meekly folded on her bosom; 
her brow rested on the altar of her God. 

Long did the pious penitent forbear to disturb the 
seeming devotion of her yet more penitent sister. At 
length, approaching, she kneeled beside that form, that 
their petitions might together ascend to Heaven. But 
that form moved not — seemed not conscious of the ap- 
proach. Startled, the Beguine pressed the kneeling figure 
with a gentle touch. Still it moved not — gave no sign. 
She spoke — there was no answer ! 

Blanche of Artois was dead ! 

Amid the dread solitudes of that consecrated pile, — 
alone with her God, — in the deep stillness of night when 
sleep fnlleth on man and shades of the departed come 
back to those they love ; — in loneliness and in darkness, 
that proud, stern spirit — once gentle — once impassioned 
— had passed to its rest; to a world where earth’s evil 
troubleth not, — where human ties can no more cause 
human misery, — there to join, as she hoped, and from 
him never again to be parted, that being so wildly, so 
guiltily, so fatally loved I 


876 


THE CONCLUSION". 


Some months had passed away, since, with sorrowing 
heart and streaming eyes, the orphan heiress, Marie 
Morfontaine, had beheld her only friend entombed in the 
consecrated ground of the cloister. It was now leafy 
June, and the woods and meadows of Maubuisson were 
emerald with verdure. One evening, at a late hour, a 
solitary horseman stopped at the lodge of the convent, 
and craved entertainment for the night. Agreeably to 
the hospitality of the age, the boon was granted ; and 
yielding his weary steed to an attendant, the stranger 
strode into the public hall. He was a man some thirty 
or forty years of age, — with an erect and military bear- 
ing, — his cheek and brow bronzed by exposure, and his 
garments soiled by travel. His face was sad but hand- 
some, and a mournful brilliancy burned in his large dark 
eye. In reply to the friendly inquiries of the aged 
porter, ho stated, briefly, that he was on his way to Paris, 
and that he was no stranger to the hospitality of Mau- 
buisson. ne then mentioned the name of the Countes3 
of Marche, and when informed of her decease he buried 
his face in his hands, and bowing his head, his form, for 
an hour, was convulsed, with suppressed agitation. 

“And Marie Morfontaine ? ” asked the traveller, sadly, 
- — at length raising his head. 

“She is a guest in this convent,” replied the old man. 
“ Would you speak with her?” 

A gleam of joy for a moment lighted up the woe- worn 
features of the stranger, stained with the trace of tears. 

“Most thankfully,” was the agitated reply; “and at 
once, good father, if it be possible.” 


THE CONCLUSION. 


377 


The old man retired, and soon returned, conducting 
the orphan heiress, whose pale, sweet face was strongly 
contrasted by the dark robe of a Beguine. The tall 
form of the stranger rose as she approached ; but it was 
enveloped in the heavy folds of a cloak, and his features 
were shaded by a pilgrim’s hat. 

“ What would you with me, Sir Traveller? ” asked the 
sad and silvery tones of the orphan. 

The stranger trembled, and seemed too agitated to 
reply until the question was repeated. 

“Know you, lady, Adrian de Marigni?” he asked, in 
tones suppressed by emotion. 

“ Alas, sir,” was the mournful reply, “ the tomb alone 
has long known him ! ” 

“Yet, should I say,” murmured the stranger, after a 
pause, “ that Adrian de Marigni yet lives — ” 

“ Impossible ! ” interrupted the lady sadly, shaking her 
Lead. 

“Marie!” exclaimed the stranger, throwing aside his 
hat and cloak, and extending his arms. 

For an instant the orphan gazed bewildered on those 
loved and long-lost features. Then remembrance flashed 
on her mind. That face — that voice! 

“Adrian!” she exclaimed: and, springing forward 
with a low cry, her fainting form was clasped to the 
broad breast of her lover. 

Yes, it was, indeed, Adrian! Almost by miracle had 
he escaped the awful doom to which he had been con- 
signed, on the very eve cf its execution, and, with two 
companions, fled to the Cevennes, inYhejnountain prov- 


378 


THE CONCLUSION. 


ince of Lyonnais. There, with a large number of other 
knights, he remained concealed among the cliffs and 
caves, until the final abolition of the order. Then, leav- 
ing -his retreat, he became a wanderer in other lands, 
until he could safely return to his own. 

Need we add that, before a twelve-month had elapsed, 
Adrian de Marigni and Marie Moifiontaine were united 
by Holy Church never to part? For, though one had 
been a companion of the abolished Order of the Temple, 
and the other had been the inmate of a Beguine con- 
vent, neither of them had assumed vows forbidding their 
union, from which they could not be and were not 
absolved. 

Forsaking the scenes which to both recalled so much 
of pain, they retired to the extensive and beautiful 
estates of the heiress in their own native Normandy ; 
and from their union sprang one of the most illustrious 
families in the realm. 


THE END. 

































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